The Dragonborn Emperor
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: Cyrodiil, Fourth Era 202. A land ravaged by unrest, political infighting and the scars of the Great War. Imperial Legion veteran, Dragonborn and scion of the Septim bloodline Servius Crixus is the only one who can save it from the Aldmeri Dominion: but will he truly save it or deliver it into their hands? Part four of my ES series, rated M, sequel to The Dragon and the Bear.
1. Prologue - Trouble at Home

**(AN: Well here we are, two years or so after I first began my venture into the _Elder Scrolls_ fandom with the straight-forward epic fantasy adventure _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_. If i thought that those previous three stories were difficult [especially the last one, where i had to go back and read through all of my previous work in the first part], this will be even worse. I have to rebuild Cyrodiil from the ground up in the medium of prose, age it appropriately by 200 years and create all new characters, multiple story arcs and sub-plots, and all new adventures for our main character[s]. As such, this will be a challenge for me to make people who you all like that you don't have "prior knowledge" of [ie. most people like Aela the Huntress because of the game, but if i create a new character, you are introduced to them from square one and have to learn about them through the prose].)  
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**Prologue - Trouble at Home**

Pelagius stood outside of the count's audience chamber, waiting for the count to attend upon him. It was unusual for a lord to call upon a private citizen for a personal audience. But, while not a lord, a priest or a general, Pelagius was rather unusual himself. At age forty, he seemed a slight wisp of a man; he was of average height, though that was belied due to his hunching, and a thin, pinched build hidden beneath plain robes. His face, thin with high cheek-bones, shoulder-length brown hair receding away from a prominent forehead and a short beard and mustache, was thoroughly forgettable: only the eyes held any charm in this slight, unimposing figure. Black like Morrowind ebony, they were always quickly scanning the room around him. But if those black, piercing eyes met someone else's eyes, they would not easily forget the look in them.

If he had a family name, no one knew it save for himself. Whether or not his given name was truly Pelagius was also a matter of debate. Even those living in Bravil - the county in which Pelagius now was and whose count he was to visit shortly - a town notorious for its less-than-lawful activities, knew nothing about him other than his name and what little they could gather about his occupation. He had no ties to anyone: not the Placators, the organization of privileged nobles founded by the Imperial liaison to the Aldmeri Dominion that bowed, scraped and pandered to every demand of their High Elven associates, nor did he have any association with the Merchants Guild or the Thieves Guild. On the surface, he was a man with no name, no title and no money to speak of, but of many means and a foul reputation.

The door to the audience chamber opened and a young squire appeared. Pelagius looked down at the lad, who quickly averted his eyes.

"The Count will see you now," he quickly uttered, then dashed down the hall past the guards.

Slowly, meticulously, Pelagius walked towards the door. His hands, which before were clasped together close to his bosom, now parted as he pushed the door open a bit wider. On his right hand was a rather old scar: a strange marking for one who was so thin and ill-favored, even the lithe Bosmer seemed mighty in comparison. He never talked about it, or anything about himself, and once the door was opened enough for him to shuffle on through, he brought his hands back together again and approached the count.

The count, Ciprius Cantilius, gave off the affluence of the high life-style of the Imperial House of Nobles. He was shorter than Pelagius and thicker as well. His cheeks, also, were round and usually rosy in mirth or merriment: today there was no merriment on his face, only a grim determination as he waited for Pelagius to approach. Unlike Pelagius, he had a full head of silver-grey hair which, also, came down to the shoulders. He was attired in black breeches with black leggings and a deep green velvet doublet, embroidered upon the left breast with a golden shield showing a stag. Over this he wore a great cloak lined with fur, sewn in colors of gold with the emblem of the stag upon it. Green was a popular color among the Nibenay counties, but the stag was the emblem of Bravil.

"You sent for me, my lord?" Pelagius asked. His voice, despite his mean appearance, was deep, even-toned and very soothing.

"Yes, yes," groaned Count Cantilius, looking away from his guest and out the window towards the Niben Bay while his right hand clenched and unclenched nervously.

"If this is a bad time, my lord," Pelagius crooned. "I can always come again at a more convenient time."

"No, never-mind," the Count dismissed. "Come closer, man. Let me see you." Pelagius obliged with a graceful bowing of his head and approached the count's chair, made of true ebony inlaid with gold. When the shuffling footsteps of the Count's guest halted, he turned his fat head towards Pelagius and scrutinized him.

"I'm afraid my appearance is not flattering, my lord," Pelagius stated after a long pause. "Although, I am a man of many talents."

"Yes, I've heard," Count Cantilius noted. "And I've called you here to make use of your many talents. Now-" The Count tried to rise from his chair, but didn't get more than an inch. He roared for his page, after which the young lad who had been scared away by Pelagius came in after a minute or so.

"Yes, milord?" the youth asked.

"Where were you off to, eh?" the Count demanded. "Hiding? Playing games in the castle? Why, if I had my cane, I'd give you a sound thrashing!"

The youth balked slightly, but kept his head bowed. "What is your wish, milord?"

"Fetch me my cane," Count Cantilius noted with quiet menace in his voice. This time he noticed the page's quiver and let out a loud, uncouth laugh. "No no, you petulant piss-pot! I need to walk! Run along now, or I will thrash you once I have it!"

The youth bowed, then swiftly left the audience chamber. Count Cantilius chuckled once the lad departed.

"Children these days," he muttered aloud. "Always disrespectful of their elders. Yes, a good sound thrashing is what they need to straighten them out. Mark you, though..." He turned back to Pelagius, pointing a fat, pink sausage-like finger at him. "...I've heard that things are worse in the provinces. In Skyrim, the-the barbaric Nords let their little straw-headed brats run amok, free as free!" He snorted. "Uncivilized, is what it is. Wouldn't you say so?"

"My opinion is meaningless, my lord," Pelagius assured the Count.

The Count grumbled underneath his breath, then turned as the young page arrived with a cane of true ebony. With this in hand, the old, fat Count pushed himself up off his throne, then made his way down the steps towards Pelagius. By the time he was within arm's reach of Pelagius, the Count's grim face was flushed and he had not enough strength to swat the page away as he had intended. Instead, his short arm waved impotently in the direction of the page and he yelled. "Get out of here!" The youth bowed and left as quickly as possible. Once he was gone, the Count turned back to Pelagius.

"I'm sure you've heard the rumors, my good man," the Count grumbled.

"My lord," Pelagius softly reminded the Count. "There are many rumors in the counties these days, and even more in the provinces, if half of my sources can be trusted."

"Huh? Oh, yes, yes, I suppose," the Count mumbled. "But..." He held up one fat finger to punctuate his point as he moved, slowly and huffing like a sload, around Pelagius. "...there is one rumor in particular of which I am personally affected."

"It is a great sorrow, my lord," Pelagius demurred, lowering his head in respect.

The rumor which Count Cantilius spoke of was that regarding his daughter and sole heir to the county of Bravil. Three months ago she had disappeared with no record of her whereabouts. In those three months, there appeared neither a ransom note, a letter of farewell or even a report of a body.

"Yes yes, I suppose it is," Count Cantilius mumbled. "That is why I have brought you here personally."

"My lord?" Pelagius asked. "Surely the city guards would be more appropriate, or a mercenary posse. I believe the Fighters Guild would be more than willing to..."

"Oh, damn the Fighters Guild," Count Cantilius dismissed. "And damn the guards! That's the last thing I need, a public scandal. Tongues all over the county are already wagging about what goes on at the castle. If they catch wind of something more at trouble, it will ruin my reputation. The other lords would swoop down upon me like vultures, trying to take control right out from under my fingers!" He rose his large fingers, snapped them in front of Pelagius' nose, then continued his slow, waddling pace around his guest.

"You know best, my lord," Pelagius nodded.

The Count nodded in return: his thick neck jiggled as he tried to nod. "There is, of course, another reason I would like to keep this private." With one finger raised he gestured for Pelagius to come nearer to him.

"My lord?" Pelagius asked in a hushed tone.

"I was doing a little investigation of my own!" the Count remarked, a hint of pride in his voice. It was indeed a point of personal pride for the pudgy lord that he, despite rumors of being invalid, disabled, gout-ridden and incompetent (or was it impotent? Incontinent, even?), had actually done a bit of investigation on his own. Of course, this usually meant sending the servants on all of the dangerous tasks while he, with hand cupped to his ear, listened at the door of his daughter's chambers.

"Right up until my daughter vanished," Count Cantilius continued. "And I have good reason to believe that she made company with some...shall we say...rather...unscrupulous men?" He paused and turned slowly back around towards Pelagius.

"Being an unscrupulous man yourself, Pelagius," the Count noted. "I thought you would be the best choice in tracking down my daughter..." He held up one large finger in note. "...clandestinely, mind you. I'll have you thrown in prison if word of this gets out to anyone. You hear me?"

"Clearly, my lord," Pelagius nodded. "You wish me to discover the whereabouts of your daughter without being detected, is that correct?"

"Ah, well done!" the Count chuckled. His whole body shook with each shaking, cough-like bellow. "It's good to know that there are still a few loyal, competent people in Cyrodiil these days." He patted Pelagius on the shoulder so hard, the thin, taller man practically caved in. After recovering himself, he smiled and nodded.

"I suppose you'll be wanting payment, eh?" the Count asked, his voice now low and disapproving. "No one does anything these days for free."

"My services are the best, my lord," Pelagius reminded the Count. "It would be considered a well-placed bargain in any county, what I offer for my services."

"Well, in my court, it's thievery!" Count Cantilius exclaimed, pounding his foot on the carpeted floor. "There once was a time when men did things for their lords out of sheer loyalty, and filial love for the seat of nobility, not for money or glory."

"The knightly orders are dead, my lord," Pelagius stated.

"Bah, don't remind me," the Count grumbled. After a while he sighed, then turned back to Pelagius, one hand over a large, golden necklace upon his thick neck. "Very well, sir, name your terms."

"Nine hundred and fifty septims is my usual price for such...clandestine work," Pelagius noted with an air of discomfort. He did not like to let on anything about himself, not to anyone. "However, for you, I will make a discount. Only five hundred."

"That little, eh?" mocked the Count. "And why will you give me discount? Am I not rich enough to afford the full charge?"

"I am not a greedy man, my lord," Pelagius stated, lowering his head. "Money to me is like the Church of the Nine: a means to an end. However, those I have to pay for the fulfillment of our arrangement are bound by such...simple wants. To give you what you want, I will have to pay them, and lately they charge..."

"Fine fine, I suppose you're right," grumbled the Count. "Very well, five hundred it is."

"Five hundred and one thing more," Pelagius added swiftly.

For one so large, the swiftness with which Count Cantilius turned in response to Pelagius' addendum was startling.

"What's that?" the Count asked suspiciously.

"News from the Imperial City," Pelagius replied. At this point he let his black eyes fix upon Count Cantilius' small, beady, blue-grey eyes. The Count could not hold his gaze for very long and turned away, looking instead at the head of his cane, carved in the likeness of a stag whose antlers were clustered into a firm head.

"What makes you think I know anything going on in the Imperial City?" the Count asked.

"Knowledge is power, my lord," Pelagius stated, his low voice no longer soothing but hungry. "Surely you, wisely wary of the machinations of the other members of the House of Nobles, must have some means of gathering information on them and what goes on in the Capital. For you, I will give a discount in exchange for information. This is all I ask." He bowed gracefully, but his dark eyes were trained upwards, towards the Count. The Count squirmed when the black eyes turned back to him: impertinent whelp, mocking him with those eyes of his!

"Very well," Count Cantilius sighed. "What is it you wish to know?"

"My sources tell me," Pelagius began, walking steadily and slowly around the Count, arms still folded into his breast. "That the Emperor has returned from his journey to his cousin's wedding in Skyrim. Immediately after arriving, he went up into the White-Gold Tower and has not been seen or heard from since. The Elder Council is running the daily administrations in the name of the Emperor and assure us that the Emperor is alive, but that he is not well."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Count Cantilius muttered. "Although, from what I hear, the Elder Council is in shambles. At least three of the thirty have disappeared, and in their absence, they're debating something rather important."

"What's that?" Pelagius asked.

"Giving sole control of the Elder Council into the hands of the High Chancellor," the Count whispered.

"Lexerus Buteo?" Pelagius asked.

"The same," Count Cantilius mumbled, a scowl upon his face.

"Why would there be need to grant the High Chancellor sole control of the Elder Council?" Pelagius asked again.

"Who knows?" the Count shrugged. "Perhaps the rumors of plague spreading into the Niben are true. Maybe those of influence in the Elder Council believe granting the High Chancellor these powers will effect a more meaningful solution? How should I know? My only concern is Bravil!"

"Of course, my lord," Pelagius bowed, keeping his dark eyes trained on the rotund count.

Count Cantilius turned towards his chair, then, just before the steps, turned back to Pelagius. "Is there anything else?"

"There is one thing more, my lord," Pelagius noted. "There are rumors that the Emperor's cousin was murdered during her wedding in Skyrim."

The Count's face fell into a suspicious grimace as he strode slowly towards Pelagius. He stopped when he was within an inch of Pelagius' broken nose.

"Be wary what you talk about these days, spy," he grumbled. "Not everyone is as generous as I am. Have I made myself clear?"

"Remarkably so, my lord," Pelagius nodded. The Count turned about to the throne and began to ascend the stairs.

"And what of the war?" he asked.

Count Cantilius let out a seemingly uncharacteristic laugh. "Haven't you heard? Finally some good news! The civil war is over! The Legions have triumphed against the barbarians of the North!"

"This is certainly joyous news, my lord," Pelagius remarked in a voice that betrayed no great amount of joy.

"To be sure, to be sure," the Count nodded. "I hear there will be a celebration in the Imperial City. The victor of the campaign, General Flavius Tullius, will march through the city streets with his Legions to receive the Emperor's blessings and favor."

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**(AN: I felt that we needed a prologue, just like in _The Dragon and the Bear_, since we are starting this story from its beginning. We also get to be introduced to two of our newest characters, the spy known for now as Pelagius [definitely not his real name], whose behavior was heavily influenced by Petyr Baelish from _Game of Thrones _[though his appearance is slightly based on Bron from the same], and Count Cantilius who is both Count of Bravil and the father of another significant character to make their appearance in this story [visually inspired by British actor Ian McNeice].)**


	2. The Return

**(AN: Now that the obligatory prologue chapter is out of the way, we return to our main character Servius Crixus. Keep in mind that, while i will endeavor to keep him as true to the character that i have developed over the years [literally], he has changed somewhat. This is the Crixus from _The Dragon and the Bear_, but if that one was fully "fixed" remains to be seen.)**

**(Before anyone asks, no, i am not affiliated with _Beyond Skyrim_ or _Tamriel Rebuilt_ or any of the other modding projects. I can barely play _Skyrim_ on my laptop, much less do i have the technical skill to modify games. What i do here is a labor of love based on my own interactions with the _Elder Scrolls_ lore from _Skyrim_ and how i feel things should have changed due to the events of _Skyrim_.)**

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**The Return  
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Servius Crixus was standing on the deck of the Red Dog, gazing out at the endlessly moving sea. It had been more than a year since he came to Skyrim to put down the Stormcloak rebellion in the name of the Empire. While he had done his part, the glory belonged to General Tullius. Crixus did not begrudge the general of his glory, for it was his own: he wanted many things, but the adulation and glory of millions was not one of his desires. For now, however, his only desire was to return to Cyrodiil. Many things had happened in the time he had spent in Skyrim, many disturbing things. The sea gave him solace, as it had for all of his life.

As soon as the night began to fall, Crixus went below deck. The prisoner, he had been told by Ashuriban Shalmanissar, the Dunmer first-mate, was being uncooperative. Though that could be expected from an Altmer, Crixus had a few personal words that he felt would carry more weight than torture or threats thereof. He therefore went to the brig and sought out his quarry. He found Elenwen kneeling in her cell, her hair disheveled and bruises on her face: the tortures she had endured were not enduring, but Delphine's blows during her examination in the Blue Palace had not been friendly. Nevertheless, the Thalmor ambassador was sitting there, or kneeling as the case may be, with all the air of a queen.

"Good evening, your Eminence," she greeted, a cheeky grin on her face.

"Don't call me that," Crixus returned. "I am not the Emperor."

"That's not what your people said," she replied. "Besides, was it not you who said that you spoke for the Empire as her Emperor?" She clicked her tongue condescendingly. "There's no going back now, you know. You've set things in motion that are beyond your control."

"Have I?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, you have, thank you very much," she continued. "It all went exactly as planned, though Thelgil's interference was, at the very best, an unexpected annoyance."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Crixus asked.

Elenwen pursed her lips into a pout. "Oh, and here you said you were cleverer than these wretched Nords. But," She sighed. "After all, you're only human."

"Still arrogant," Crixus chuckled. "Here you are, locked away in the brig of a pirate ship, bound for Alinor with nothing more than the clothes upon your back, and you _still_ act like a complete and total b*tch."

"And why shouldn't I?" she asked. "It's like I said before: you can't get rid of me. Kill me and you've started the War again. Beat me, chain me, throw me away onto an island, and it won't be long before I'm back in power and have got you in my sights."

Crixus paced around the prisoner as they spoke, his attention more or less on the prisoner. She showed no signs of attempting to escape: in fact, she seemed as calm as a guar, which was nothing but suspicious coming from one of the Thalmor.

"They tell me you're being uncooperative," he spoke at last. "That you haven't been answering their questions."

"Which questions would those be?" she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. "I can barely understand a word of what that Ashlander scum says. Where did your glorious pirate captain dig him up? Out of what was left of Vvardenfell?"

"Where are the other Thalmor agents in Skyrim?" Crixus asked. "And what is the extent of the Thalmor activity in Cyrodiil?"

Elenwen chuckled. "That's not the real question you want answered, though, Servius Crixus. The real question is simpler, though the answer, unfortunately, is not: have you been guided by my will this entire time?"

Crixus halted, took Elenwen's neck in his hand and forced her to look up at him.

"What did you say?" he demanded.

"You don't remember, do you?" she asked. "That is well, for I made sure that you couldn't remember. But when we first met, I gave you orders to act on my secret orders for the good of the Dominion, not of your Empire. You want to know if I ordered you to kill the Emperor or not."

Crixus pushed her onto the ground, but she made little sign of being injured.

"You...mentioned that at the peace summit on High Hrothgar," Crixus stated.

"Ah yes, the peace summit," she replied fondly. "How could I ever forget that to which I was denied my rightful place?"

"How do you know about that?" Crixus asked.

Elenwen grinned mockingly again. "Do you think I am foolish enough to divulge all of my secrets, imprisoned as I am now?"

"I think," Crixus replied, kneeling down behind Elenwen and seizing her neck in his hands again. "You have no choice."

"Just as you had no choice but to obey my orders?" she asked.

"Shut the fuck up!" Crixus snapped, shoving her forward until her face was even with the dirty, wet floor. "You know nothing, you smug Altmer b*tch!"

"I know that there is nothing you have that will make me talk," she replied, rising up in defiance.

"Fucking useless," Crixus groaned as he made his way to the door.

"I will say this much," Elenwen spoke. Crixus turned around. "When you return to Cyrodiil, you will doubtless find that much has changed. Perhaps then you will realize that we mean business, and that, no matter your grand victory against the heathen Nords, the battle may be won, but the war is already decided."

Crixus said nothing more as he left the brig. Her words stung his mind, especially considering his own struggles with freedom of will that he had just before the death of Titus Mede II. Though he did not hear the voice of the Night Mother as much as before and General Claxitus' ghost and the ghosts of the others were silenced for the time being, Elenwen's words brought back everything that had flooded his mind at that point. Was he indeed fighting the Dominion? He had always assumed that the Empire's victory meant the Dominion were defeated in their attempt to spread dissent in the Empire, but could there really be any kind of victory if both sides were being controlled by the same puppet master?

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Fair and favorable winds drove the Red Dog swiftly into the west. Seven days they were on the seas and arrived off the coast of one of the smaller Summerset Isles. From here, on the edge of the sea, the tall towers of Skywatch on the northeastern island, closest to the main isle, could be seen. Close and yet far enough to make return dangerous. After the anchor was dropped, Elenwen was brought up from the brig and shuttled to the small island in a wooden raft and there left with what she had upon her back and nothing else. The boat then rowed back to the Red Dog, which raised sails and began its journey back to mainland Tamriel, this time against the winds.

Three days at sea, the winds shifted and the captain, Shaddar al-Malik, ordered the sails dropped and all haste made to return to Cyrodiil. Crixus restlessly paced on the deck that afternoon, his thoughts disturbed by the many things that he had heard, those things that had already happened and those that were yet to happen. Thus it was when the helmsman, a Khajiit named J'Dhar, cried out with a loud voice.

"By the Sacred Moons!" J'Dhar roared. "Will this ocean never end? There is nothing but water as far as the eye can see in every direction!"

"Worry not, worthy J'Dhar," Shaddar, ever the optimist, assured him. "Worry not. The Red Dog has not sunk or been taken since I became her captain! Tava willing, we will arrive back home in good time. Then, my good cat, it will be off to Senschal for all the moon sugared wine, women and gambling our filthy black hearts can desire!" He let out a hearty laugh, then walked down from the bridge towards the deck, where Crixus had come to a halt, gazing out at the sea with one hand upon the rigging.

"You seem troubled, my friend," Shaddar noted.

"Yes, I'm troubled," Crixus replied. "You only broke the Dominion fleet at Dawnstar, you weren't there in Solitude to see what they did...again."

"War is a sorry ordeal, my friend," Shaddar stated. "But what makes it more bearable is the prize to be had at its conclusion."

"And what prize will you have for your little contribution, Shaddar?" Crixus asked.

"A long overdue stay in Senschal," Shaddar grinned. "Like I told J'Dhar. We are going to enjoy the fruits of Elsweyr, which lay beyond the imagining of even the seediest corner-club in Mournhold or Blacklight! I will seek out new crewmen, sell some of the booty I have made. You know, Ruptga was certainly with us that one time in Blacklight. Those Redoran bastards never took my cargo, which will make me and my crew filthy rich men in the places where we are going."

"And I'm glad for you, old friend," Crixus said, patting the old Redguard pirate captain on the shoulder. "You've served the Empire longer than I have, you deserve to enjoy the fruits of your labor." He chuckled. "You know, I've never really talked about it, but my service is over."

"What do you mean?" Shaddar asked.

"Twenty years in service," Crixus stated. "Then retirement, or a posting of one's own. That was the rule. I only managed to serve nine years in the Legion, but I count my time in Mournhold from 180 to early 201 as part of my service as well, though served in exile."

"You are a free man, then," Shaddar grinned. "What will you do with your freedom?"

"Freedom," Crixus scoffed. Even the idea seemed insulting to him, after all he had been through and what he had seen. Elenwen's words brought back the fear that his actions had never truly been his own: had he truly killed the Emperor of his own accord? What about all the fighting and service he rendered to General Tullius during the civil war?

"Ship out with us," Shaddar added. "There's plenty of room on the _Red Dog_ for you, my friend. Together we will be unstoppable."

"I don't think Ashuriban would approve," Crixus stated.

"You would not be taking his place," Shaddar replied. "I would broker no favoritism with you merely because of our friendship. You would begin as an ordinary seamen and work your way up to whatever rank you like...except captain!" He added with a playful shove and a chuckle.

"It's certainly tempting," Crixus stated.

"Then why not take up my offer?" Shaddar asked. "Like you said, you have done your duty to the Empire. Why not retire and live out the golden years of your life in joy and revelry?"

"Because, my old friend," Crixus answered. "If there is one people I hate more than the Nords, it's the Altmer. I saw the depths of their depravity during the War, again in Hammerfell and a third time during the siege of Solitude. How...deep they've infiltrated, it worries me. That yellow bastard said if...'if only you could see what we have done to Cyrodiil in your absence.' Before he died, I...I spoke to the Emperor. He said that there were rumors of unrest in Cyrodiil." Shaddar knew about the Emperor's death, but he knew not about the circumstances behind it: then again, as a Redguard of Hammerfell, he might not care as much as others would.

"But you are free, Crixus," Shaddar stated. "You are no longer bound to the Imperial Legion."

"Cyrodiil is my home, Shaddar," Crixus replied, turning to the old pirate captain. "I grew up in Anvil, played on the golden fields, the beaches and as far east as the woods of Kvatch. I know it's funny, because I've lived in Mournhold longer than in Anvil, yet, for me, spending exile was somehow easier, knowing that Cyrodiil was safe behind me." He turned his head back to the ocean.

"Besides, I never had the luxury of running away from the Dominion. If the Empire falls, we all fall. And I...I have to go back there, to see what's become of my beloved Cyrodiil."

"Well, to each their own, then," Shaddar resigned. "Nevertheless, my offer will stand until the day I die. And if you have need of me and my ship, just send a message to Senschal. I have friends there who will be able to forward it to me should I be at sea."

Crixus grinned. "That's always excellent to hear, worthy Shaddar. Although..." He turned around and pointed towards the helmsman. "I think you should look to your cat, though."

"J'Dhar? Oh, he's fine," Shaddar dismissed. "He hates all this water, though." Shaddar turned towards the helm and, cupping his hands to his lips, shouted out: "Keep us steady! Even with this wind, we're still four days out from the Gold Coast!"

"Do not remind J'Dhar, captain!" the Khajiit shouted back. "He will count every moment, night and day, until he has solid ground beneath his feet!"

Shaddar laughed, then turned back to Crixus, who was licking his parched lips.

"Don't be afraid to join us below this evening," Shaddar stated. "There will be plenty of spiced Sentinel rum to quench your thirst."

"I hate rum," Crixus replied. "It's too sweet and too weak: reminds me of that piss they drank in Skyrim. I want some strong, bitter beer!"

"Thirst is a great enemy on the high seas, my friend," Shaddar said. "And, for me, beer is too dry. You will have to wait until you return to Cyrodiil to taste the local brews."

"I plan to," Crixus stated.

"And the women?" Shaddar asked. "Do you remember them?"

Crixus bit his lip: he never told Shaddar about his 'Colovian goddess', or anyone else besides Elisif. Nevertheless, it suddenly occurred to him that, barring her, he had never yet laid with any other woman of his own race.

"I was too young," he said at last. "Still, it shall be good to compare. The Dunmer women in Mournhold were very open and unrestrained about their sexuality: Nord women were timid at first, but became aggressive once you got them in the sack." He did not add Elisif to that list, for she was unique.

Shaddar smiled. "A man after my own heart!" His laughter died down, then he asked Crixus again. "So this is what you will do? Sample the wine and women in Cyrodiil?"

"Among other things," Crixus stated. "It's come to my attention that there are quite a few...organizations that have long since laid dormant. It is my task to go there and...reawaken them."

"Sounds like you have your hands full already," Shaddar chuckled. "Ere you ever set foot on Colovian shores."

"That I do, my friend," Crixus nodded. "That I do."

"And is there, perchance, anyone waiting for you?" Shaddar asked.

"What about you?" Crixus returned. "Anyone waiting for you back in Hammerfell?"

Shaddar grinned. "Ah, you know me, my friend. I have a woman in every port, as they say! But what about you?"

"I have a woman," Crixus stated, referring to Elisif without speaking her name. "And as for a family..." He sighed. Severus had been more than receptive of him during the uprising against the Dominion: perhaps it was because the subject of the letters had not yet come up. But even thinking about Severus Maro made Crixus feel ashamed: he had the blood of his son Gaius on his hands and he could never forgive himself for that.

"Well, let's put it this way," Crixus finally added. "Petruvius will be glad to see me when I return to Anvil. I sent him on ahead to bring the West Fleet to Solitude under your command. They should have returned by now, and he will be waiting for me there."

"Very well, then," Shaddar said. "I wish you well in your future endeavors."

"And you in yours, my friend," Crixus replied. But by now, Shaddar was running back to the bridge, shouting at J'Dhar in High Yokudan. Crixus, meanwhile, turned back to the sea, his heart heavy with the unspoken things.

More than simply 'organizations' that needed to be reawakened, he was also going back to claim his throne as the Emperor. He still doubted that he would be a worthy Emperor: at least, as he saw an Emperor's worth in the person of Uriel Septim VII. Surely he could, as he and Eirik often joked, be a second Talos. But Crixus did not enjoy the similarity. He hated Talos as much as he hated Wulfharth the Grey Spirit, and to be compared to him angered him and deepened his distrust in Eirik the Dragonborn. For now, however, they had parted on good terms, Eirik remaining in Skyrim to save the Skyrim Fighters Guild - Crixus still held the Companions in contempt - while he returned home, to save the Empire.

_Unfortunately,_ he mused. _I have no Numidium to use against the Dominion, like Talos. Ah, damn all prophecies and prophets to Oblivion! Lethia should have given me something more concrete to go on, like _where _the third Numidium would come from. That would be useful. Lethia..._

She had followed their camp during the uprising, but Crixus had insisted that she be brought along on the _Red Dog_ with him. He did not trust the last living Snow Elf in Skyrim, in the hands of filthy, smelly, bigoted Nords: they'd kill and rape her on the spot. Instead, he chose that she should come with him in secret and he would acclimatize her to the world just as Eirik had acclimatized Serana of the Volkihar Clan of vampires to the world. She was now in a room of her own below deck, alternating between sleeping and violently discharging whatever she had last eaten.

* * *

Evening turned the western sky into a blaze of fire, and the ocean a deep shade of indigo. Before them the Abecean Sea was almost black under the coming of night. J'Dhar kept his post at the helm while Crixus went below deck once again, a bottle of Sentinel rum in his hands. The drinking still helped, as it had before, to erase the bad things that had happened in times past, no matter how bad it tasted. He also felt that he needed the courage when approaching Lethia. Now that she could speak and see, she seemed as arrogant as Neloth had been at times.

He found her bent over a barrel, with a bucket held under her face and her white hair held back behind her head. Without asking permission, he pushed the door open a bit further and walked into her chambers.

"By Auri-El!" Lethia groaned. "I am not a Maormer. I'm not accustomed to the ceaseless rocking of the sea!"

"Eager to be back on land, my lady?" Crixus asked.

She looked up from the bucket and wiped her pale blue lips with a towel. "I did not ask for your presence. Begone, I am busy."

"Busy throwing up, I see." Crixus stated. "I'm glad at least some of the time I put into having Calcelmo teach you the common tongue was not wasted. Listen, before we get there, I feel that there are a few words I should say."

"Words? What words?" she asked. Her voice had the authoritative air he had come to expect from the Altmer and royal houses of Morrowind: were it not for her icy tone, one might say that her voice may be lovely.

"I cannot go in secret all the time once we have made landfall in Cyrodiil," Crixus began. "Therefore we will find ourselves in contact with many people, many humans. It won't do for you to go about calling them all slaves."

"Why not?" Lethia asked. "Is a human capable of anything else?"

"Precisely that," Crixus stated. "_That_ is something that we can't have any more of once we reach Cyrodiil."

"It is the truth, and I do not lie," Lethia stated. "The slave-people will merely have to get used to it."

"Look, you're not supposed to be like this!" Crixus groaned, his frustration leaking beyond the means of his composure. "You're supposed to be grateful to those who have shown you help, who have saved you from oppression..." Then, for reasons he could never articulate, he added: "...and who have suffered oppression as well."

"Why?" she asked. "Why should I be grateful to you?"

"Because you know what it's like to be oppressed by the Nords," Crixus stated. "Therefore you should be kind and understanding to those who are oppressed, like you."

Lethia scoffed. "A slave whining about how severe his burdens are is no concern of mine. My only concern is for my own. It was, after all, the kindness and understanding of the blasphemous Dwemer that brought my people into this sorry state in which they live."

"No, that was the Nords' fault," Crixus stated.

"Do not presume to lecture me on my own history!" she retorted. "Now leave, if you have nothing else to say to me."

"Only that you should be more grateful, at least to me," Crixus added. "I mean, if it wasn't for you, that monster Eirik would have killed you without hesitation and thought nothing of it."

Lethia placed the bucket down on the ground and walked over to Crixus.

"You are kind, slave," she stated, her voice softer and less haughty. "More than you should be. I know that much has changed since these eyes last looked upon the sun." Her blue eyes certainly were entrancing, Crixus noted quietly. Almost like Karliah's violet eyes, a rarity among her people. "And I will rely on your counsel, such as it is, when we return. But do not think that I will accept your slave people with open arms."

"I hope, in time," Crixus stated. "That may change."

"I can assure you it will not," she replied. "Now go."

"Wait, before I go," Crixus spoke. "There is one thing I want to ask of you." He held out his hand. "Can you show me what the future brings?"

"Do not seek to ensnare me, heathen," she cooed. "Auri-El, who gave these eyes the gift of foresight, has shown me that you do not fear the gods or the daedra, and have no regard for prophets or their words."

"My world," Crixus replied. "Is what I see and hold in my hands. It's simpler that way."

"A simple, foolish point of view," she sneered softly. "Held by the slave races...and Dwemer."

"I know of no other," Crixus lied. He had had ample opportunity and example throughout his time in Skyrim that would make even the most stubborn admit that the Divines and the Daedra were real. But Crixus was not merely stubborn: he was obstinately ignorant and defiant. After the fear of sudden death or great horror passed, his sudden belief in the Divines faded and he went back about his normal way.

"You will see it in time," Lethia said. "And I will be there to guide you back to the light."

"If the light turns me into something like you," Crixus added with a cocky smirk. "I'm quite content being in the dark, thank you very much."

"Mock all you want," she continued. "Your mockery will turn to regret and your laughter to wailing before the end."

"Doom and gloom," Crixus said, rolling his eyes as he made his way to the door. "You'll have to do better than that."

A change suddenly came over her as she approached Crixus, seized his hand and gazed into his eyes, her own empty and pale. When she spoke, it was not the voice of Lethia, but another voice: a chorus of discordant voices, all of them speaking at once. The dissonance was frighteningly familiar.

"What do you want?" asked the voice. "Assurances that you will succeed? That you will create an Empire that will last a thousand years, have victory over all your enemies and live a long life? There is only darkness ahead of you, but to see where your place in the Sphere lies, you _have_ to go forward!"

"What did you say?" Crixus asked, his voice aghast. No one else, not even Cicero, could have spoken those five words, with that exact same inflection. In fact, no one else should know about it, certainly not a Snow Elf.

Lethia blinked, then gasped, and threw Crixus' hand aside. Her eyes were blue again and her voice was her own.

"Don't ever touch me again!" she gasped. "Get out, now! Leave me! I've had enough of you for one evening, slave!"

With a sigh he left her quarters, closing the door behind him. He hesitated, almost hoping that he could go back and say something else, but then heard retching noises as she went back to vomiting. _Some people just can't handle the sea,_ he thought. Nevertheless, her words did sting him to the core as much as Elenwen's words. It seemed that his entire history was known by someone of great power who had an interest in him. But who could it be?

* * *

Four more days at sea brought the _Red Dog_ at last into the Gold Coast. By midday, the large carrack was making its way into Anvil harbor. Crixus stood upon the bow, gazing out at the city. It seemed wider than he remembered it, though the walls were just as high then as they had been when he was a child. The golden-brown terracotta-tiled roofs of the city were always a welcomed sight for him, but now they reminded him of the color of Elisif's hair. Houses built upon houses rose up in contest with the old Chapel of Dibella: a proper chapel, built in the Colovian style, unlike the stave temples of Skyrim or even the grander Temple of the Divines in Solitude. Crixus sighed happily at the sight before him: it would be good to be back in a proper city, among civilized people once again.

"There is your jewel of the West!" Shaddar exclaimed. "Your Anvil."

"Home!" Crixus shouted back.

The old Redguard made his way to the bow, where Crixus stood. "You seem more excited to be here than ever I've seen you before."

"And so I am!" Crixus stated. It was true, though: he had not seen Anvil in thirty years, since he left for the War at age fifteen. All of the pleasant memories that went along with this great city suddenly came flooding back into his mind and he felt like a young lad again.

"We cannot stay too long," Shaddar notified Crixus. "I am, after all, a pirate, and there are doubtless many in the Merchants Guild or the East Empire Co. who would not shed a tear over having me executed for piracy. I..." He shrugged. "...may have plundered a few of their ships and sank several others."

"A gentleman of fortune, I see," Crixus grinned. "Aggressive trading at its finest."

Shaddar threw his head, and most of his upper body, back in a loud, belly-full of laughter. "Oh, Crixus, you are good! How I shall miss your company in Senschal."

"And I'll miss you as well, old friend," Crixus replied.

"Remember what I said," Shaddar called as he left the bow. "Send me a message to Senschal if you ever need me. Or, better yet, come yourself in person!"

"I'll remember that," Crixus replied, then look one last look at Anvil as it loomed ever closer. With its tall towers and unconquerable walls, Crixus felt happy and confident. When he heard that his father Valerius had died, he feared that something had happened to Anvil. Instead what he saw was that, if the Dominion had ever besieged it, they did a poor job. The walls were intact and showed no sign of repair or damage.

"Dear old Anvil," Crixus smiled. "It's good to see you again."

From the bow, Crixus made his way swiftly on deck, double-checking himself one last time. He wore the armor of a Legion commander, such armor as he had worn during the siege of Solitude, but upon the fauld he had his own belt, with a new gladius sitting in the sheath: the Nightingale Blade was among his personal effects which he placed into a sack he carried on his back, along with the Nightingale clothes, hood, cowl, boots, gloves, the bundle of letters and most of his knives, including Astrid's Woeful Blade that had taken her life. His bow, the Bow of Nocturnal, was upon his back and his quiver hanging at the bottom of the baldric that went from his left shoulder to his right hip, opposite his sword. Shadowmere's amulet was hidden beneath his armor and any other gear, bandoliers and weapons were stored in the sack on his back. He looked prepared for war, though he was in fact a warrior coming home from war, not going out _to_ war.

It was late summer and the high sun made the cool ocean breeze temperate. So it was odd that, as Crixus made his way to the starboard side of the ship, which would be docked at Anvil harbor, that he saw a crewman wearing a cloak and hood that obscured his entire face and body. He was about to ask the crewman what ailed him when he saw, on the dock coming towards the ship, a detachment of men in Imperial armor. It looked very much like Legion armor, but the tunic, worn beneath the armor and showing through the skirt-like fauld, was not the solid red of the Legion but red embroidered with silver stars: the color of Anvil. At their head was one who appeared to be a captain: he had finer armor than the others and walked with authority up to the edge of the pier, before the deck of the ship.

"By order of Her Highness, Countess Maro of Anvil," the captain said in a loud voice. "This ship is ordered to surrender into our custody the passenger whose name is Servius Crixus."

Among the crew, several hushed whispers were made and nervous glances made in Crixus' direction. Crixus, meanwhile, looked over at Shaddar, who was at the top of the stairs leading down from the bridge onto the main deck. There was a look of calculation in his eyes as he summed up the strength of the Anvil city guards before them.

"Who told you that a passenger of such a name was on board my ship?" Shaddar asked, approaching the pier.

"I am not at liberty to provide _you_ with information, pirate," the captain retorted. "I am ordered to bring Servius Crixus into our custody."

"I am a free man," Shaddar stated. "And I will not have you Imperial bastards order _my_ ship."

"If you withhold the passenger in question from us," the captain returned. "We shall have no choice but to take the ship and place her crew under arrest."

Shaddar's hand reached for his scimitar. "You're welcomed to try, heart-lander."

"Wait!" Crixus spoke up. "This is ridiculous. No one is dying on my account, not today." He approached the starboard side of the ship, standing now two feet before the captain of the Anvil city guard.

"Are you Servius Crixus?" the captain asked.

"Yes, that is my name," Crixus replied.

"Come with us," the captain ordered.

* * *

**(AN: Had to end the chapter on a twist, since the whole "oops, you begin the game as a prisoner" thing is kind of a cliche among the _Elder Scrolls_ and i would be amiss if i didn't do that here as well [had it in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ as well as, somewhat, in _The Dragon of the South_]. We get re-introduced to a few characters, as well as have some lines of dialogue with Elenwen [which i kind of hate writing dialogue with the Thalmor, because i have to write arrogant lines without giving away all of their secrets]. But the real treat will come in the next chapter, once we're officially on land and in the court of the Countess of Anvil. I've also made the distance between the Summerset Isles and mainland Tamriel a bit greater than you see on most maps.)**

**(And, of course, we can't go anywhere without words about [you guessed it] my brother. He is the reason that there is a Dunmer with a Babylonian name on Shaddar's crew [ie. an Ashlander], because he HATES that _Skyrim_ tried to change things from how they were in _Oblivion_ and _Morrowind_ [he thinks that there would still be Ashlanders, who would have somehow survived the eruption of the Red Mountain]. Like he takes it as a personal affront that the lore of _Skyrim_ tried to, in his belief, write out everything that was established in those two previous games and, as he also believes, mock and deride everything from those games. Now, personally, i see quite a bit of the lore of both of those in _Skyrim_ [Whiterun being the center of the eight-spoked wheel that leads to the Tower, ie. High Hrothgar, and the _Dragonborn _DLC as a whole being a _Morrowind_ nostalgia trip], but i feel that, since two hundred years have passed since _Oblivion_, things should logically change. Like, barring the massive amounts of change that happen in our own time, between 867 AD and 1066 AD [almost two hundred years], quite a bit happened as well. There was still a Byzantine Empire, yes, but the petty kings of England were united under one king, Francia became France, the Carolingian Empire became the Holy Roman Empire, the Magyars became Hungarians, Leif discovered Vinland and there was a Great Schism between the idolatrous West and the iconographic East. Needless to say, a lot can change in two hundred years time. So i'm down with the change, and you will see just what kind of changes for Cyrodiil i have conceived throughout this story.)  
**


	3. All in the Family

**(AN: Yes, a wild ride indeed! Hopefully this chapter won't put you off, as there will be more exciting stuff to happen. This chapter is part of Crixus' personal journey, as well as an ode to the massive amount of behind-the-scenes writing that i've put into these stories [most of which never makes it to the pages you see], and a formal introduction to a little bit of history of Cyrodiil and Crixus' family.)**

**(I've done a lot of research for this story, both within and without the _Elder Scrolls_ lore [as you saw in the author's note of the last chapter]: i've deconstructed the evolution of knighthood and feudalism, examined early medieval culture, Byzantine style, food from river regions like the Mississippi Delta, even re-read _The Three Musketeers_ for context of a complex chivalrous type of story. Like i said, rebuilding and aging _Oblivion_, should probably go the extra mile. The down-side of all this is that we have no characters to tag for the story since at least 85% of the main characters will be new characters.)  
**

* * *

**All in the Family**

Crixus had seen Castle Anvil from afar when he was a child, seated on its lone isle of rock in the bay like a king above his subjects. It seemed so high and mighty, above everyone and everything else in the city. As a little boy, playing knight with his brother Venerius and his cousin Severus in the streets of Anvil and the fields beyond its walls, he always imagined that one day he would live in such a castle, or go there as a knight errand of Count Utrius, who was the ruling Count of Anvil when he lived there. He never expected that one day he would be going there in person, being flanked by the Anvil city guard.

From the docks, the guards led him not towards the gates of the city. Instead they took him to the southernmost end of the docks, where a small boat was waiting for them. The captain chose four of his strongest guards and dismissed the others, then he and the guards took Crixus into the boat. Two of the guards continued to guard Crixus while the other two each took an oar and pushed out into the bay off from the dock. Crixus was bemused at his predicament: the guards had not even tied his hands or confiscated any of his things, and he was being taken secretly towards the castle. If, as he assumed at first, he was to be punished, he thought that he would be taken through the streets of the city and paraded before the jeers of the crowds, or at least to have his hands bound.

Once they reached the isle, the guards secured the boat, then the captain had them take Crixus up to the gates of the castle. The gates were open and, in the courtyard, a multitude of people were standing before a pair of great wooden doors bound with iron. Straight ahead the guards went, taking Crixus through the doors and into a high-roofed hall of smooth, marble-like stone, supported by many narrow, tall pillars. A long stretch of carpet went across the length of the hall, crimson and embroidered with the silvery stars of the banner of Anvil. At the far end of the hall was a double stairway leading to a door on the landing. In that stairway was cut a niche under which sat the throne room with two shallow, wide braziers were burning away: but there was nobody at the throne, not even an adviser to greet him.

"You will wait here," the captain said to Crixus. "Her Highness will be here to see you shortly."

The guards left Crixus in the hall, then went on their way, closing the door behind them as they departed. With a few moments of peace now, Crixus looked about the hall, trying to see if someone was here or if he could gauge what would doubtless happen once the Countess arrived. He recognized the name, Maro: perhaps a relative of Severus? He had heard of a Countess in Anvil, or perhaps he had been mistaken. All would be revealed once the Countess arrived, though her appearance seemed to be delayed. Two minutes passed and another was half-way done when a side-door finally opened, revealing Selvia Maro, Countess of Anvil.

The Countess was shorter by at least eight inches from Crixus' height, yet she bore herself with the grace of an Altmer. Her clothing was most extraordinary: a wide-sleeved blue dress with hem and shoulders of gold embroidery, with a cloak draped over her shoulders and bound at the shoulder with a brooch that bore the emblem of Anvil. The cloak itself was also a thing to behold, its hem lined within and without with gold and precious stones, and the main fabric was dyed red and bore the silver stars sewn therein. She bore no crown or earrings, but upon her wrists were two golden bracelets. Altogether, she put even the finest dressed Telvanni, Hlaalu or Black-Briar to shame in Crixus' mind.

She entered the room gracefully and approached the carpet, all the while her eyes were trained on Crixus. Their eyes met, and Crixus swallowed quietly: it was the same dark chestnut shade that he had seen in the eyes of Severus and Gaius Maro. Averting his eyes, he inclined his upper body in a bow as the Countess came to a halt upon the carpet, turning directly toward him.

"You are Servius Crixus?" she asked.

"I am, Your Highness," he replied.

"Let me see your face," she uttered, taking a few steps closer to Crixus. She was now come up even with him, though she did have to crane her neck up slightly to look into his eyes. Crixus tried to read her face, to judge how she would be receiving him or if he was in her disfavor, but her face was unreadable.

The Countess smiled, then threw her arms up around Crixus' shoulders in an embrace that took him completely by surprise.

"Oh, praise be the Eight!" she exclaimed, laughing happily. "You have returned to us!"

Crixus was so utterly shocked that he had no words to speak in response. Countess Maro broke the embrace and stepped back to look at him again.

"You have your mother's eyes," she said. "Blue like the Gold Coast under a noon day's sun."

"You-You knew my mother?" Crixus quavered.

"I've seen her portrait," the Countess replied. "But, please, forgive my forwardness. My brother speaks very highly of you, so when your squire came here, asking for the West Fleet, I knew that you would not be far behind and had the guards bring you in. I had to see you for myself, though."

"See me?" Crixus asked. "Whatever do you mean? And who is your brother?"

"You really don't remember?" she asked. "Well, it couldn't have been too long ago. The last time I saw you was when I was nine, that was before the War began."

Crixus paused for a moment, his mind going back to his childhood. As a boy, he often spent his time climbing trees, playing knight or throwing rocks at the strange people he saw in the streets of Anvil, but most often with his brother Venerius and with Severus Maro. But there was someone who often came with them, a little girl, the youngest of their little band: she was never as rough and rowdy as the boys, and often was the princess that they would have to save in their playing from some evil daedric prince or mad sorcerer.

"Little Selvia?" Crixus asked. "By the Eight, you've grown!"

Selvia Maro grinned widely. "You _do_ remember!"

"And your brother was..." Crixus interjected. "Is...Severus Maro."

"Oh, I'm sure he will be very happy to see you again this evening!" Selvia exuded.

"Wait, see me?" Crixus asked. "This evening?"

"Well, surely," Selvia replied. "You will be staying here at the castle with us. You're family, after all. And tonight there will be a feast to celebrate your return. Now..." She looked back towards the side-door through which she had come into the throne room. "If you will please excuse me, I have to hear the petitions of my people. My duties as Countess are never done. But I _will_ be there tonight for the banquet, and there you will be properly introduced to the whole family. For now..." Picking up her dress, she swiftly walked over to her throne, picked up a silver bell that had been lying on the arm of the throne and rang it.

A young woman came in answer to the summons. She was dressed in a simpler version of what the Countess wore, only with no cloak of authority and fewer jewelry and a dress of white instead of blue. She had dark hair as well, tied up into a bun that was covered in a mesh of thin, gold chain. Her face was too fresh, round and optimistic to be very old: in fact, as Crixus examined her, she seemed to be no more than a child, not even of majority age.

"Selena, there you are," Countess Selvia said to the young girl. She then gestured to Crixus. "This is Claudia's son, your great-uncle Servius Crixus. I am putting him in your charge while I hear the petitions of the court and the people. Show him around the castle, show him his room, let him see his squire, and have him to the Library. I think he should like to see our family's records."

"Yes, auntie," the young girl replied with a curtsy. With that, Countess Maro picked up her dress and made towards the door swiftly, yet still with at least half of the same grace she had upon entering. Meanwhile, the young girl named Selena turned to Crixus and curtseyed.

"I'm happy to meet you, uncle," she greeted warmly.

"Uh, thank you?" Crixus asked, still taken aback by the warm reception he was receiving. "Listen, I've come from a long voyage by sea and if there is..."

"Oh, I can have your squire take your things to your room," Selena replied. She gestured for Crixus to follow her into another hallway, where a few servants stood waiting. She called to one of them and asked that Silenius Petruvius be brought forth to the throne room. While he was on his way, Selena called for two chairs to be brought into the throne room for them to sit while they waited. Two servants appeared shortly with oaken chairs stained a dark, chestnut brown. Into one chair sat Selena and into the other Crixus sat, placing his sack next to the legs of his chair while they waited for Petruvius.

"So, is there anything else I can get for you?" Selena asked.

"Well, as I said," Crixus continued. "I've been at sea for a long time, and I am weary."

"Worry not, uncle," she replied. "We'll show you to your room shortly."

"Why are you doing this?" Crixus asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm nobody to you," Crixus returned. "Why are you and the Countess treating me so...warmly?"

"But, uncle, you're family," Selena replied. "The Maro family have always held the bonds of family to be the strongest and most worthy of honor and defense. It is part of our motto: '_Family and service._' Of course, I know it's not a famous motto, but it has heart and the people love us for it."

"They do?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, yes," Selena answered. "The Maro family have been very popular with the people of Anvil ever since the end of the Great War."

"Is that a fact?" Crixus inquired.

"It is, verily," Selena began. "My father was a child when it happened and he often tells me the story of how our family finally rose to prominence after years of loyal service to the Counts of Anvil. During the War, Her Highness' mother opened up our house to house the children orphaned during the War."

"The house," Crixus stated fondly. "The old Maro manor."

"Yes," Selena nodded. "It still stands, and some of the rooms are still used to house the orphans of the city. Aia was a good woman, Selvia told us. And the people loved her, though Count Urtius was not very fond of her, or any of us for that matter."

"Why was that?" Crixus asked.

"My father told me," Selena stated. "That our great-grandsire, Caius Maro, married Count Urtius' noble-born daughter, which gave our family a stake in the inheritance of the city."

"Wait a minute," Crixus interjected. "Tell me who was your father? I-I think I remember a few other children, a few younger ones. They never played much with us because we were the big boys; too rough for them, I think."

"My father is Hieronymous Maro," Selena replied, her countenance falling down slightly at the mention of her father. "He serves in the Imperial Legion and stays at their camps to the south, keeping watch on the border of Valenwood."

"You seem troubled over that?" Crixus noted.

"Wouldn't you?" she asked. "The camps to the south watch our borders with the Dominion. If they decide to attack us, they will be our first line of defense!"

"I-I'm sorry," Crixus stated. "I didn't meant to be insensitive. Your father is doing his duty to the Empire, that is a good thing."

"That's what my uncle Tyrellius said," Selena nodded, composing herself a little more.

"How many Maros are there?" Crixus mused aloud, more to himself than to anyone in particular.

"Oh, there's quite a few," Selena stated.

But at that instant, young Petruvius was ushered into the throne room. Upon seeing Crixus, alive and well after the siege of Solitude, he stood at attention and saluted in the fashion of the Legion: right hand balled into a fist and pounded against the left breast, then outstretched and opened before him.

"General!" Petruvius greeted. "It's good to see you alive. I trust the siege went well?"

"Well enough," Crixus replied. "For now, though, I am weary. This young woman..."

"Selena Maro," she stated.

"Yes, Lady Maro...

"That's my mother," Selena clarified. "You can call me Selena."

"Very well," Crixus continued. "Selena told me that I had a room prepared for me ahead of my arrival?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded. "The Countess demanded to know who it was who would be taking the West Fleet away from Anvil, and I gave her your name. If I have done wrong here..."

"Never mind," Crixus shook his head. "Take my things up to my room and wait for me there."

"Sir!" Petruvius saluted, then took the sack which Crixus slung from off his shoulders and placed at his squire's feet. Crixus also added his bow and the baldric which carried his arrow quiver, then Petruvius bowed and went on his way.

"How long have you known him, uncle?" Selena asked.

"Long enough to know he's a good squire," Crixus stated. "He's served me well while I was fighting the barbarians in the north."

"You've been to Skyrim?" Selena asked, intrigued. "Gods, you must have hundreds of stories to tell! But I'm forgetting myself." She rose from her chair and called for the servants to take the chairs away. "I must show you the Library. Her Highness said you might want to see our genealogies. We can talk about your adventures along the way."

Selena led Crixus out of the throne room and through a corridor. There were many servants and guards along the hallway, many of whom bowed to Selena as she approached. While they were walking, Crixus shared a little of what he had experienced in Skyrim. Selena seemed more interested in the people of Skyrim and asked about the noble families of Skyrim and who ruled the counties there.

"They don't have counts in Skyrim," Crixus stated. "They have earls who report to the High King, if there _is_ a high king."

"Did you meet many earls?" Selena asked.

"Several, in fact," Crixus replied. "There was a peace summit, and most of the earls were there, but I personally met several others in the mean time. There was Maven Black-Briar, an...enterprising woman who become earl of Rifton when it was liberated from the rebels. There was also Idgrod the Elder, a wise woman with skills in the magic arts who was earl of Morthal: she was a loyal from the beginning. But the most important was Elisif the Fair, earl of Solitude. She will be chosen as the High Queen, now that the rebel earl of Windhelm is dead."

"What were they like, these earls?" Selena asked.

"Like I said, Maven was a clever woman," Crixus stated. "She had a business, the Black-Briar meadery. Owned and run by her family. They made some of the best mead, the _only_ good mead, in all of Skyrim. She ran her business with shrewdness, a cunning mind and a keen eye. Many people complained that she was..." Crixus shrugged his shoulders. "...unfair, exacting, even corrupt. But they were just jealous of her success."

"Like with Her Highness," Selena mused aloud.

"Oh? What do you mean?"

"Well, while Her Highness and our family are loved by the people of Anvil," Selena continued. "There are always those who do not trust us, who whisper into their mugs that we are 'the new wealth' and are running Anvil into the ground."

"Is it true?" Crixus asked.

"Her Highness is dedicated to serving the people of Anvil!" Selena replied, a bit taken aback by the accusation. "She's often busy personally speaking to the people, hearing their petitions in person. She uses funds from her treasury to run the orphanage and gives alms to the poor. Anvil has prospered under her rule. Those who oppose her want only to take the throne for themselves."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," Crixus stated.

"My auntie, Her Highness, that is," Selena continued. "Is a good woman and a skilled diplomat. Our family have always striven for excellence in all we do, and in no one is the spirit of the Maro family's endless striving for excellence more apparent than Selvia Maro. She has served the people of Anvil well and we have all thrived because of it."

"I didn't mean to anger you," Crixus repeated.

"It's no fault of your own," Selena stated. "You've been away from us for years, you don't know. But that will change soon, once you've seen the histories and met the family at dinner tonight."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "Well, I hope I haven't put you off your curiosity for the earls of Skyrim. There's more to tell also."

"By all means," Selena replied as she led Crixus up a flight of stairs. "Do go on."

"The earl of Morthal is a family woman, much like your aunt," Crixus stated. "Her whole family lives at court with her."

"Is she a good earl?" Selena asked.

"Her loyalty to the Empire is beyond question," Crixus replied. "But are there those who say that she...does not care for her people."

"Does she not?" Selena asked curiously.

"She is a sorcerer first," Crixus explained. "Everything else must come second to that. And she is wise to do so."

"Her Highness does not put her own desires," Selena stated. "Over the needs of the people or family."

"And what if the needs of her court," Crixus asked. "Countermanded the needs of her family?"

"As I have said before," Selena stated. "It has been the ambition of the Maro family to achieve excellence in all that we strive to do. You will see this in full once I show you the records of our family tree."

It was at this point that they arrived about mid-way up the stairs, where there stood a wooden door. Selena removed a key from off a chain around her neck and placed it in the lock, opening it. Inside was a spacious library built into one of the castle's towers. Narrow glass windows gave off little light, but the room was illuminated by many candles. Here and there were a few tables with one or two chairs thereby for longer reading spells. At one such table Selena pulled back the chairs, then walked over to a large bookshelf and returned with a book that was twice as thick as her arms (though she was a young girl and of slight frame, this by no means diminished the size of the tome). She placed the book on the table and pried open the huge, thick pages. Each page had, at its top, a shield with the family crest upon it: an argent horse rampant upon an _or_ field with an azure chevron.

"This," Selena said as she thumbed through the pages of the book. "Is a record of the Maro family and its many exploits, dating back to the Second Era. Most of this is based on records gathered over the years, I've memorized them all. But here is what you will want to see." Crixus took a seat at the table while Selena continued to flip through the book. With a proud exclamation, she found her page and turned the book around so that Crixus could see it. Upon the page was drawn a tree and on it were recorded in black letters many names as well as dates of birth and death. Selena's hand went to the top of the page.

"Oh, I went too far back," she muttered. "This is from the Third Era." Her hand traced down the branches of the tree to one name, 'Oritius Maro'. "Our family's ambition has not always been honorable. But we have improved over the years." She continued to turn the pages until she found what she was looking for.

"Here we are!" she exclaimed. "Mid-to-late Fourth Era. Here the line begins at Caius Maro, who would have been my great-grandfather."

"Grandpa Caius!" Crixus exclaimed, a fond grin on his face. He followed the tree up to the top, where the name Caius Maro was written.

"You know of Caius Maro?" Selena asked.

"Know him!" Crixus exclaimed. "Oh, we were terrified of Grandpa Caius! He was the captain of the Anvil city guard, a big, strong fellow who was as stern as an angry minotaur!"

"But that's impossible!" she dismissed. "Caius died at the onset of the Great War."

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "I was saddened to hear of his death."

"But how could you have heard of his death, or have known him when he was alive?" Selena asked, wonder in her eyes.

"Because I was alive as well?" Crixus asked. "That was one of the reasons we never stayed at the Maro house when he was there."

"But you don't look much older than my uncles or my father," Selena stated. "And they're in their thirties. They never knew Caius Maro, they were little children when he died."

Crixus grinned. "I am much older than I look."

"You must have been," Selena stated. "If you are indeed Claudia's son like my auntie, Her Highness that is, said." She moved her finger across from the name 'Caius Maro' and over to the name next to it: 'Ariela Maro. nee Urtius.'

"Wait a minute," Crixus, whose eyes were following Selena's fingers, interjected. "My mother's mother was related to the old Count of Anvil?"

"Ariela was Count Urtius' daughter," Selena recited. "At the time, he was growing older and had no sons. Caius showed him excellent service and so he gave him his daughter to wife. That gave our family rights to the throne of Anvil, but also complicated things when Count Urtius sired a bastard which he named as his heir."

"How did your aunt become Countess, then?" Crixus asked.

"That I will leave for her discretion," Selena replied, moving her hand down the line that formed from Caius and Ariela to three names: Claudia, Gentonius and Surius. "These were Caius and Ariela's children: my grandpa Surius, Selvia's father Gentonius and..."

"Claudia..." Crixus breathed. Selena's hand moved to the name 'Claudia Maro' on the page. Crixus smiled when he saw the name next to it: 'Valerius Crixus'. From where the two names met, a line went down to two other names: 'Servius Crixus' and 'Venerius Crixus.'

"Firstborn of Caius' family," Selena stated, indicating to Claudia. "She was his jewel, the records say."

"And there lies the name of my father," Crixus grinned proudly. "A good man he was."

Selena chuckled. "A good man?"

"Don't you say an unkind word about Valerius Crixus," Crixus retorted in a low, threatening voice.

"I'm sorry," Selena defended. "It's just, well, I've never heard any account of Valerius Crixus in our family's history that called him 'good'. He served in the city guard under his father-in-law, if that's what you mean. But many considered him a stain on the family name."

"How _dare_ you call my father a stain!" Crixus seethed. "He taught me loyalty to the Empire, faith in the Divines and devotion to my family!"

"Those are hallmarks of your mother's side of the family," Selena stated. "As the records show, Valerius was a farmer's son who lived a vain and carefree life. His liaison with Claudia during the New Life festival was a blight on the family name, one that great-grandpa Caius would not let stand, which is why he made him marry Claudia. Then she died giving birth to another son..."

"My brother," Crixus said through clenched teeth.

"Venerius, yes, that's the one," Selena continued. "Caius never forgave your father for it, and your father never appeared at any feasts, festivals or family reunions. He did his duty and remained at home."

"He had a duty at home, Selena," Crixus replied, anger still simmering inside him. "To raise my brother and I. As for why he never appeared at any of your little family functions, it was probably because he remarried after my mother died...to an evil Dunmer witch who consumed his life and sapped him of his strength! My father had his own private battles to fight, ones that your little records book doesn't see, and he did the best that he damn well could to raise my brother and I. So don't fucking judge me and keep your mouth shut about shite you don't understand!"

"Well, excuse me!" Selena retorted, sounding offended. "I only speak of what I've read from the books. If your father didn't want to divorce..."

"He couldn't divorce my stepmother," Crixus stated, his tone defensive. "He was...he was under some kind of spell, she had bewitched him. He abandoned everyone else except Venerius and me." The tone of his voice changed from defensive to accusatory. "Maybe if you had asked me instead of judged me based on something an old book said, something that only told one side of the fucking story, you wouldn't have forced me to get angry!"

"I-I'm sorry," Selena apologized. "As I said, I only know the story of how it's written in this book."

"Whatever," Crixus groaned. "So where do you and the Countess fit into all of this?" He waved his hand over the book.

Selena sighed, then pointed to the second of the three names below Caius and Ariela: Gentonius. "As you well know, many in the family may have disapproved of what happened with your father and your mother, but you were always welcome among them. Especially Gentonius."

"I remember Gentonius," Crixus said, his anger fading away as good memories were replacing them. "He had Severus and Selvia, your Countess, as his children. He was a good man and knew of what my father was going through. He let Severus play with Venerius and I." Crixus sighed, a smile on his face. "Ah, those were the best days ever."

"Severus, well, Commander Maro that is," Selena continued. "Will be happy to see you at the banquet tonight." Her finger passed over the name below Severus and Livia Maro, nee Siruliulus: Gaius Maro. Immediately Crixus saw her shoulders slouch and her demeanor change.

"Gaius would have wanted to meet you," Selena stated. "His father spoke very highly of you, which is where all the good we have heard of you comes from. Please, forgive me what I said about your father: I should have known better. And please, don't think that my family holds any grudge against you over what your father did. Commander Severus never ceased to sing your praises whenever he was on leave from his duty as a guard of the Emperor. Because of those praises, as well as many fond memories, my family has quite accepted you as one of our own."

"It's alright," Crixus dismissed.

"He was posted in Skyrim, Gaius was," Selena stated. "Did you hear about what happened to him? Do you believe what they said?"

"What did they say?" Crixus asked, his heart pounding fiercely beneath his ribs.

"He was found dead in the old dwarven city of Markarth Side," Selena replied solemnly. "On his body was a letter that named him in a plot with the rebel earl Ulfric Stormcloak to kill the Emperor himself!" She scoffed. "It's so unlike him, though. Gaius grew up in this house before he went to the Imperial City to join the Emperor's guard with his father. I knew him personally: he was always devoted and loyal, just like his father before him. It...it's hard to imagine that he could possibly _want_ to betray everything he believed in!"

Crixus said nothing. He knew that the official report was false: Gaius had been loyal to the end. But the truth he could not admit, for the truth, he feared, was worse than anything his father may have done while he was alive. If the Maro family was as close and devoted to family as they appeared to be at first glance, what happened at Markarth would be the height of betrayal. The truth was that Crixus had killed Gaius Maro with a knife across his throat. He had been ordered to do it by the Dark Brotherhood, but in the end, it was not the Dark Brotherhood that caused Crixus to kill Gaius, but he himself. When Gaius panicked, something in Crixus felt ashamed that this mewling, screaming child was not only the son of his beloved cousin Severus but a member of the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor's personal guard. He _wanted_ to silence him, to end this charade, this embarrassment of the Emperor's guards, and so he killed him of his own accord.

"I wasn't in Markarth," Crixus lied. "But, if Gaius was anything like his father, then you can be sure that he was no traitor."

"I _knew_ he wasn't!" Selena exclaimed proudly. "I hope, tonight, you can tell that to his mother, Livia, and bring peace to her mind and heart. She has been sulking in her apartment for months, ever since word came of the manner of Gaius' death."

"I'm sorry," Crixus said. "Look, it's alright, you don't..." He turned as if he would leave, then paused for a moment. He had keen eyes and saw again the third name beneath Caius and Ariela.

"Wait, is that...Surius?" Crixus asked, his elation rising. "As in Uncle Surius?"

"Yes, it is," Selena replied. "He is my grandfather, and he lives to this day, being fifty-seven years of age."

"Good ol' Uncle Surius!" Crixus grinned. "He was my favorite uncle growing up! I remember he'd always give Venerius and I a septim each and then send us off to Butto's Bakery, down by the Count's Arms. We'd buy warm sweet-rolls, fresh off the oven, or stale bread to throw at the passersby in the streets and then hide. He was always quick with a joke and covered for us if we got in trouble."

"That sounds like my grandpa alright," Selena chuckled. "He had three sons by his first marriage: my father, uncle Tyrellius and uncle Decimus."

"The little ones," Crixus grinned. "I remember their mother, aunt Vilenia. She was sterner than Surius but nicer than grandpa Gaius."

"Vilenia the warrior," Selena stated. "Some say that she had barbarian blood in her veins, to explain why she trained with her arms. Very unladylike!"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "I do recall that she had a sword that she kept. One day I walked into her room and tried to swing it: she was so angry, she'd have bit off a dragon's tail with her bare teeth!"

Selena laughed. "Auntie...Her Highness, told some of the greatest stories about Grandma Vilenia. Vilenia the warrior, Vilenia the Shield-maiden, Vilenia the Strong."

"Was she a Nord?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, gods, no!" Selena shook her head. "She was born and raised here in Cyrodiil, but her heart was wild, my auntie said." Selena sighed. "It was that, they say, that led to her death. Grandpa Surius joined the Legion with most of the men of the family. But she wasn't content to stay behind with the women and children, so she took up her sword and shield and left to find him. She never returned." Crixus saw another name paired with Surius Maro and two other names below that one, but Selena did not point to them. Instead, she began to close the page.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Crixus spoke. "What about those last two?"

Selena seemed visibly uncomfortable at this. "We don't talk about that." She swallowed, then turned back to Crixus. "I'm sorry, it's a very personal matter. A matter that is very serious, almost as serious as what happened with Gaius. Whatever you do, don't mention it at the dinner."

"As you wish," Crixus replied.

"Now, then," Selena asked, closing the book. "Shall we continue our tour of the castle?"

* * *

**(AN: Mostly dialogue and descriptive paragraphs, with a little bit more of Crixus' back-story here. Please tell me what you think of some of the new characters i have created. Selvia Maro's visual inspiration came from yet another criminally underrated English actress: Anna Friel. Her attire is, like Count Cantilius', heavily Byzantine-inspired. I did create a family crest for the Maro family, since every family needs one, including Crixus' family [though since they're not "officially" royal, i don't know what their crest should be]. You will also noticed that i used the Anglo-Saxon word "earl" instead of Jarl and many old-_Elder Scrolls_ terms like "Markarth Side", "Rifton" and "dwarves" instead of Dwemer [terms which i personally loathe]. This is to carry on in the vein of _Oblivion_, which showed the inherent cultural bigotry of the Imperials against anyone who wasn't an Imperial [as well as keeping in my brother's false theory of "bashing the last game."])**

**(Don't be mistaken: Selvia is not a bad person, and while Selena has lived a sheltered life, she is not bad either: imperialism breeds cultural bigotry, where one believes that their culture is inherently better than everyone else's and that they have the "burden" of bringing their culture to the ignorant savages [read Nords for _Skyrim_ and Dunmer for _Morrowind_]. Nonetheless, we will definitely see more of the Maro family in the next chapter [which i have thoroughly expanded in my writings].)**


	4. A Feast with the Family Maro

**(AN: I promise to speed things up and get back to Crixus fighting and adventuring and solving plots of political intrigue. But one thing i think is important, in the long run [especially if you have read _The Dragon and the Bear_, i don't need to remind you of Crixus' ultimate goal], he will need the support of the counts. Therefore it is incumbent for him to gain their favor: it will not always be this easy. Of the eight counts, I can think of only one more that might be as easy as this one and i won't tell you who it is [if you've read my other stories, you might have an idea who i'm speaking of]).**

**(A big feast, lots of dialogue, i'll try to throw in some of that stuff about food and lore i talked about in the last chapter. We've also got some of the reasons why this is rated M.)**

* * *

**A Feast with the Family Maro**

The tour of the castle was brief, for Crixus was weary and more in need of rest than of exploration. The young Selena led Crixus to a room on the western wall of the castle that had narrow windows looking out towards the bay. Here he found Petruvius examining the gear that Crixus had brought with him. After Selena left the two of them alone, Crixus forbade his squire from examining any further.

"My apologies, sir," Petruvius begged. "I was only doing..."

"No need to apologize, Petruvius," Crixus replied. "I have many things in my life...many secrets. They are secret for a reason. If I need to divulge information, it is done only on a need to know basis. Is that understood?"

"As you wish, legate," Petruvius replied.

"Now," Crixus said, taking a seat on the bed. "Tell me what happened when you came here."

"I gave the Countess the message, just like you said," Petruvius continued. "But when she heard your name, she asked that I remain until your return. I wasn't a prisoner, though. They let me wander the town at my leisure, unaccompanied and unwatched, on the condition that I do not leave before you arrived."

"I see," Crixus nodded in recognition. "And now, tell me about the town. Is there anything in particular that we should note?"

"Well," Petruvius began. "There's the Fighters Guild hall, if you're interested in training with your arms, sir. There's also an office for the Synod next door. As far as taverns go, there are quite a few in the city. But the oldest and most renowned are the Count's Arms and the Flowing Bowl. The Maro manor, where most of the family lives as well as where the orphanage is ran, is on the eastern side of town, next to the Chapel of Dibella. Across the street from the Synod office is the Anvil Exchange, where the Merchants Guild conduct their business."

"Have you learned anything regarding life outside the city?" Crixus asked.

"I didn't ask, sir," Petruvius replied. "I spent most of my time here listening and looking. Your, uh, cousin Decimus, I believe, I've seen him about the streets quite a bit. He frequents the Fighters Guild Hall, but as evening starts to set in, goes towards the Count's Arms."

"I see," Crixus mused. "And what can you tell me about the Countess?"

"Forgive me, sir, but I saw very little of her while I was here," Petruvius replied. "She keeps court in the throne room sometimes, but often she is in the courtyard, hearing the appeals and petitions of her people personally."

"What a fool," Crixus stated. "She should know better than to expose herself needlessly to danger."

"That, my lord," Petruvius replied. "Is far too bold for me to say, even in your place."

"Yes, yes, I know," Crixus answered. "Well, then, it appears that I shall be asking many questions of the Countess at the dinner table this evening. You're welcome to join us, if you desire."

"It's not right for the servant to be seated with his master," Petruvius muttered, flushing red about the ears.

"Come, now," Crixus replied. "You're hardly a servant. You got to masquerade as me once: I've had old war friends who never had that privilege."

"You flatter me, sir," Petruvius bowed. "But I am, after all..."

"Not tonight," Crixus interjected. "Tonight you will be seated at the Countess' table as a friend."

* * *

Two hours passed before it was almost time for dinner. Around that time, Selena came up to their room and told Crixus that she would escort him to the dining hall. Crixus said that Silenius Petruvius would be seated with him, which Selena said could be permitted. Then she added:

"There is something else I would like to show you before we eat tonight," she stated. "If you will permit it."

Crixus nodded and then Selena led him and Petruvius back into the throne room. She led them up the stairs behind the throne room and, after unlocking the door, entered a short hallway with doors on the left and right side and one door directly ahead.

"How familiar are you with Colovian art?" Selena asked Crixus as she unlocked the door.

"Not very familiar," Crixus replied. "There were no paintings at my house when I was growing up here, and all they have in Mournhold are tapestries. Beautiful ones, yes, but no paintings." He scoffed as he added as an aside: "I doubt the barbarians of Skyrim even know what painting is, much less have any works of art, great or small!"

"Then you might find this room even more to your liking than the Library," Selena stated. "You see, my auntie, Her Highness that is, she is not like the usual wealthy families of Cyrodiil. Instead of spending her time looking for Akaviri artifacts, her past-times include reading and art."

"You mean the Countess paints?" Crixus asked, surprised by this revelation.

"That would be incredible indeed!" Selena laughed. "No, she is not a painter, but she has commissioned painters to make some fabulous works in honor of our family. As I have said before, the Maro family has been very ambitious over the generations. Her Highness' ambitions lie in being a just, fair and skilled count to bring honor and prestige to the family name thereby. But she has also immortalized our family forever in art, as you will soon see."

The door was now opened and Crixus found himself inside a wide hallway with heavy curtains draped over the walls. Nearby the door, on a little pedestal of its own, a candle was burning. Selena picked up the candle with one hand and with the other pulled back one of the heavy curtains. Beneath it, hanging upon the wall, Crixus saw several large paintings of people, some of whom he recognized and some who were completely alien to him. Most of the people had a very similar appearance: dark hair and eyes varying from blue, gray, green to dark brown. Selena, however, directed Crixus' attention to one large portrait in particular which had five figures presented therein.

In the center of the painting was fierce-some grandpa Caius Maro, beaming with pride. Most of his hair still bore its dark luster, which, as Crixus recalled, had faded as he grew older. He was seated in the portrait, and behind his chair, with hands upon his shoulders, was a beautiful woman with long, curling red hair tied behind her shoulders in a golden nest similar to what Selena wore. Around them were seated their children: a little boy and a baby in the arms of a young woman who seemed to be no older than Selena was now. Crixus halted as his eyes came to rest upon the woman's face. It was very narrow, even in youth, with a thin nose, slender neck and small lips. But it was the eyes that drew him in and held him under their spell: they were blue, just like his own, and a little wider than most of her features, demanding the attention of anyone who looked long upon her face.

"Is that..." Crixus breathed, recognizing the eyes as his own. "...who I think it is?"

"Yes, uncle," Selena answered, almost solemnly. "That is Claudia Maro. Your mother."

For a moment, all of Crixus' reserve, honed over his time in the Legion and a brutal prefecture in Mournhold, collapsed. He reached out to touch the face of the painting, suddenly aware that his eyes were leaking. Here before him was the face of his mother, the one who gave him and his brother life. He had never seen that face before in his entire life, for his stepmother had made sure that there were no portraits or keepsakes in the house while she ruled: nothing to remind the children of any mother other than herself. Once again her lies came back into his mind: sometimes she would try to pit one child against the other, saying that Venerius had killed their mother when he was born. Or, when they were together, she would say to both of them that their mother didn't love them enough to live and raise them.

Then he remembered why he knew this beautiful face in the portrait belonged to his mother. He had seen her before, after a night of love-making with Elisif. In a vision over the Gold Coast, she had come to him and said only eight words: "_My son. I have always been with you._" How he wished now that he had known that voice over the sneering, mocking, crow-like caw of Sedris Ulver. How he wished _that_ voice had been with him all of his life, tucking him into bed as his father had done, telling stories to him and his brother, taking him to the Chapel to say his prayers every Loredas morning. He had seen Mjoll, Eirik's fat Nordic woman, and how she had doted upon her adopted child: how he wished that his mother had been alive to treat him thus.

Suddenly a new thought came into Crixus' heart. She had died to give Venerius life. Even as it had been with the Nord people, Sedris' lies were now coming back into his head, taunting him, mocking him, poisoning his heart. If it weren't for his gods-forsaken brother, perhaps this vision of loveliness might still be alive to this day. He had been the one who had ran off first to join the Legion and escape Sedris' tyranny over their house: were it not for him, maybe even his father, Valerius, might be alive as well.

"Sir?" Petruvius asked. "Are you alright?"

Crixus noticed that his hand, which one was gently caressing the portrait, had turned into a fist. With a sigh, he relaxed his hand and brought it up to wipe the tears out of his eyes.

"Yes, I am well," he lied.

"I'm sorry," Selena apologized. "I didn't mean to cause you any heartache. It's just, well, my father, my auntie, Her Highness that is, my grandpa, they all said how you never knew your mother because she died when you were very young. I thought it would be good for you to see her face."

Crixus did not answer, for he did not want to speak or to hear anything else. The spell of his mother's portrait were enough for him, at the expense of everything else. He asked leave to gaze upon the portrait for a while, which Selena conceded and left him and his servant there alone. Five minutes passed in uneasy silence until at last a steward arrived and whispered something into Petruvius' ear.

"It's time for dinner, sir," Petruvius said at last.

Biting his lower lip, Crixus hardened his heart for a moment in order to turn away that he and Petruvius might follow the steward downstairs and into the dining hall of the castle. But the face still lingered on in his mind and heart.

* * *

The steward led the two of them back down into the throne room, then through another door which led to a dining room that appeared to be of similar size and shape to the main throne room. Three tables were arranged to form the letter 'C' in the common tongue turned on its side (or perhaps 'oht' in the Daedric tongue?) The center table, which formed the top half of the 'doorway', had a richly-carved wooden throne upon which sat the Countess: on a chair at the table upon the Countess' right hand sat Selena. As Crixus and Petruvius entered the dining hall, Countess Maro rose from her seat as did Selena.

"Welcome, Servius Crixus," she greeted, a smile on her face. Crixus noticed she was wearing the same gown as when he had met her in the throne room a few hours ago. With her right hand, she gestured to a seat at her right. "Sit here, in the place of honor."

"I...I'm at a loss for words," Crixus, still off his guard from the picture he had seen in the gallery, stammered. "I know not what I've done to deserve such welcome at a first meeting."

"My memory still serves me well, dear cousin," Selvia Maro stated. "And, for myself and as long as I am head of the family, you will always be welcomed in my manor and here at court. It is, after all, our charge: '_Family and Service._'"

"Yes, yes, I know," Crixus replied. "Your...uh...niece?" He gestured to Selena. "She has been telling me much about your...our family history."

"I am glad," Selvia stated. "Were there fewer people today at court, I would have been able to show you the records myself. But I do not begrudge the people of their requests or complaints. A good leader must be able to take the bad with the good, or else there is only sycophancy and flattery. But, please, forgive me! I did not mean to keep you standing, come! Be seated!"

"And my squire also?" Crixus asked. "I assured him that he would be allowed to sit with me at the table."

"As you wish," Selvia replied, then called for one of the servants to set a place for Crixus' servant. While they were seated, Crixus looked around the table. Apart from the servants who attended the doors or were bustling in and out of the kitchens every one in a while, only the four of them were present at the table.

"Your Highness," Crixus spoke.

"Please, call me Selvia," she replied. "When I'm in the throne room or holding court, I am 'Your Highness.' Tonight, we are family."

"Very well...Selvia," Crixus continued. "Where are the others? I was led to believe this was a large family."

"And so it is, my dear nephew," Selvia answered. "But we are often very busy. Selena lives at court, for she is still young and unmarried and her father is in the Legion with his brother Tyrellius. Decimus you are likely to see arrive first for he...speak of the lords of Oblivion!"

At that moment there entered a man of average height, broad shoulders and short auburn hair. He was dressed in a simple jerkin and pants, and his belt had the sheath upon it. As soon as he entered, Selvia rose and gestured to Crixus and Petruvius that they should do likewise. The red-haired man saluted his aunt with a low, respectful bow, then took his place at the left-hand table.

"Decimus," Selvia began. "Allow me to reintroduce you to your uncle, Claudia's son Servius Crixus."

"Deciumus?" Crixus asked. "Little Decimus? Fu..." He then realized in whose presence he was and cleared his throat. "I-I mean, gods, I remember when you were born. You were as small as a scrib!"

The red-haired man blushed. "It's an honor to finally meet you in person, uncle. I regret that I have no memory of you, for I cannot remember anything that happened during the War."

"I envy you, then, young man," Crixus stated. "I fought in the War when I was only fifteen years of age."

"Gods," Selena muttered out loud. "You were younger than me when you joined!"

"My father talks about the War, sometimes," Decimus stated. "As did most of our family. We have seen much service, and..." He sighed. "...we are very honored."

"Oh, Decimus," Selvia interjected. "Now is not the time for this."

"Is something wrong?" Crixus asked.

At once, Selvia and Decimus spoke: she said "No" and he said "Yes."

"It's not something we should be bringing up at this joyful occasion," Selvia stated.

"He should hear about it, right?" Decimus asked. "If he's family, he's bound to hear about it sooner or later."

"Bound to hear what?" Crixus asked.

"They want me to join the Legion," Decimus stated.

"It's a great honor," Selvia said. "Both for you and for our family as a whole."

"And you don't want to?" Crixus asked.

"I've volunteered to join before," Decimus said. "Though I have not been accepted. My cousin says I should train more with my arms, so I've joined the Fighters Guild."

"But what _do_ you want to do?" Crixus asked. At this, Decimus lowered his head as if in shame.

"Oh, don't be ashamed, uncle," Selena interjected. "Tell him. He won't mind."

"Tell me what?" Crixus asked.

Decimus turned his head away from Selvia, who was now seated in her chair again. At last he spoke, in a slow, almost muttered voice that forced Crixus to lean in to hear what he was saying.

"I was actually," he said. "Thinking about...being a writer."

"I've told you once before," Selvia spoke. "There is no Writers Guild anywhere in the Empire. There is no honor in such a task."

"Maybe I don't want to uphold the family's honor," Decimus retorted. "My brothers have families with many children, and now we have another uncle! There's plenty of honor to go around..."

But any other words he might have said were drowned as the doors were thrust open and in walked a man in his fifties with short, graying hair. He was powerfully built, and must have looked a right sight better in his younger days, before his belly started going to seed. He had a short, neatly trimmed mustache and beard and was dressed in fine clothes and wore a fur hat with a tall, starched peak that gave the impression of a jester's cap.

"Uncle Surius is here!" the large man roared with a voice that seemed to make the hall quiver. "This feast is now a party!"

"Uncle, take off that ridiculous hat!" Selvia chided, though her hand concealed a grin on her face.

"Why?" Surius laughed. "This is a celebration, isn't it? Now where is he? Where is Claudia's son?" He looked about at the few faces in the room, then his grin widened when he saw Crixus.

"Ah, there you are!" he exclaimed, crossing the room to where Crixus was standing. He swept up Crixus in his huge arms, practically squeezing him. After he put him down with a powerful pat on the back, Crixus half-thought that, in his fifties, Uncle Surius could likely challenge Torgrim Stone-crusher to an arm wrestle.

"Ho ho, I don't remember you being this small, or this slow!" Surius laughed. "Every time I tried to hug you, you'd run around the house and I'd have to chase you and hold you down until you stopped squirming!"

Now it was Crixus' turn to feel embarrassed as well as Decimus: for the large man here was Decimus' father. Though he was used to this behavior more than Crixus, it was still quite a show to see his fifty-something year old father act like a child. Without being told where to sit, Surius sat himself on Petruvius' right. While he was beginning to share with the squire the details of a rather horny anecdote, a woman with dark hair who appeared to be in her mid-forties followed Surius into the dining hall and sat to his right.

"My boy," Surius said to Crixus. "Allow me to introduce you to my wife Caldana. Caldana, my dear, give your warmest regards to my sister Claudia's son Servius Crixus." The woman meekly rose and bowed to Criuxs, who nodded in return.

"Selvia!" Surius roared. "When are you going to serve the wine? This is a party, isn't it? We need wine to cleanse the palate before dinner!"

"Please, uncle, be patient," Selvia sighed. "Besides, you promised you would behave yourself."

"I am behaving myself, Selvia!" Surius replied. "Have I flirted with the servants? Have I started singing '_Sweet Lady of Wayrest_' while dancing on the table naked? No! I would say I've behaved myself like a perfect gentleman...and am entitled to a celebratory drink therefore!"

Crixus chuckled. "I don't remember you being this fun before, uncle."

"My father was a bit of a stick in the mud, Divines rest his soul," he replied, bowing his head in respect. "He did his best to try to keep me in line, keep me respectable. But..." He smiled. "...he is in Aetherius and here am I, an old man with nothing else to do but drink and whore my way into an early grave!"

"Uncle, in front of your wife!" Selvia exclaimed.

"Oh, not right now, of course!" Surius chuckled. He then turned to Crixus. "I've got many sons and daughters. Most of them I've only met for the first time recently. Have to be wary, though: many think they can swindle me for money because I'm from a rich family." The doors opened, then Surius let out a loud, hearty laugh. "Did you give your announcer the night off, Selvia? Why are my family not being announced when they come in?"

The next one to enter was a tall man with hair cut very short, in the same style as Crixus, clad in the armor of the Legion. Behind him was a shorter Breton woman and three children behind them. They ran towards Surius, who rose up from his chair and greeted them with smiles and laughter, picking up one boy and one girl in his arms. He then knelt down and produced from out of his hat, through a little sleight-of-hand, three septims which he gave to each of the little children.

"There you go," he said. "Tomorrow, before your lessons, go and buy yourselves something good at Marius' Bakery." The tall man approached his father and embraced him. Surius then turned to Crixus and introduced the tall man. "My eldest son but one, Tyrellius."

"Ah, yes," Crixus replied, standing up to greet his cousin. "I remember you. Always playing in the sand by the sea-shore. You used to love whenever we'd go to the coast."

The tall man grinned and blushed. "Cousin Servius. _You_ were the tall one, as I remember: things certainly have changed. Oh, gods above, I never thought I'd see you."

"Alright, alright," Surius, who had given Tyrellius' wife a kiss on the cheek, said to his son. "Go give your auntie a kiss or I'll kick your teeth in!"

The tall Tyrellius made his way over to Selvia, where he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Afterwards, he turned to Crixus and introduced him to his wife Marcella. He and his family then joined Decimus on the left side of their table. By now, a low hubbub was raised as the little children stirred in their seats or talked among themselves and Tyrellius asked his brother Decimus about how things in the Fighters Guild had been going.

"When is your brother coming, Tyrellius?" Surius asked. "You two aren't very far, you should be right behind one another."

"In time, father," Tyrellius replied. "He's probably at home, gathering up the children." He looked over at Selena. "You know how they can be."

"Yes, uncle," she demured.

"Wait a minute, children?" Crixus asked. "More children?"

"I have two sisters and a little brother," Selena replied. "Priscilla, Sibylla and little Butto."

"Your brother is named after the baker?" Crixus asked.

"Divines rest his soul," Surius said ruefully. "He died two years ago, the day that Butto was born. Hieronymous and his wife Fralvia named him after the kindly old soul."

Crixus turned to Selvia, who seemed to be burying her face in her hand.

"Are you alright?" he asked, leaning over to her.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine," she dismissed, a grin on her face. "I forgot how noisy it is around here when the whole family is together."

"Wine!" Surius shouted again. "Where is the wine?"

Selvia turned back to Crixus. "Sometimes I feel as though I'm the only one who actually grew up in this family."

"Tyrellius seems just fine," Crixus stated.

"Wait until Hieronymous arrives," Selvia added. "Once they start drinking, they'll join Uncle Surius in all of his revelry...including the dancing about naked while he sings '_Sweet Lady of Wayrest._'"

"They'll never stop us!" Surius roared triumphantly.

Several minutes passed while those present reminisced about this and that, until Surius leaned over to Crixus from across Petruvius.

"So, then, my boy," he began. "How do you do? I remember you joined the Legion, but I regret to never having had the pleasure of being at your side in battle. Where were you positioned?"

"The 9th Legion with General Claxitus," Crixus replied. "We were sent to Bravil to stop the Dominion fleet moving up the Niben Bay."

"I was in the 4th Legion under General Atrius," Surius added. "With my father Caius and my dear brother Gentonius, Divines rest their souls. Caius died during the First Battle of the West Weald, when the Dominion marched by land up from Valenwood and Elsweyr."

"I heard that was a bloody ordeal," Crixus stated. "After the second battle, the Dominion built forts there to keep the 4th Legion entangled."

"Yes, it was," grumbled Surius. "But..." He held up his fore-finger. "...we had some of the best camp followers. Exotic ones, too."

"Surius, please!" Selvia exclaimed. "In front of the children!"

"It's not right," Marcella stated. "None of it. No self-respecting Imperial - heart-lander or river-lander - should be carrying on with a cat...or a wood elf!"

"There's nothing wrong with Khajiit or wood elves, Marcella," Selvia stated.

"Finally something we agree on!" Surius laughed aloud. Selvia grinned.

"Excuse me," Marcella retorted. "But I believe Countess Caro has the right of it. Those filthy skooma-dealers are ruining our cities. We don't need them here, especially after they were dumb enough to throw their lot in with the Dominion!"

"Please, my dear," Tyrellius interjected. "We haven't even begun eating yet!"

"Yes," Selvia stated. "There will be plenty of time for talking once we're all seated and tucking into our dinner."

"What will it be, Selvia?" Surius asked. "I'm so hungry, I could eat the arse out of a sload if I had to!"

"Really, grandpa!" Selena exclaimed. Selvia buried her face in her hands while Crixus was grinning from one side of his mouth to the other. He was glad that he had Surius near him, for he appeared to be excellent company.

Just then, the door opened and out came a man who was only a few inches shorter than Tyrellius but who had a full head of dark brown hair, almost black. He was also dressed in the armor of the Legion. Behind him came a woman with dark hair who, Crixus saw, had many of Selena's features, only sharper and less youthful. In her arms was a little boy and behind her were two girls younger than Selena: one eleven and the other five. No sooner had they entered when Selena rose from her seat and swiftly walked over to the man, who was bowing before Selvia. She kissed him once on each cheek, then turned and did the same to her mother. Before anyone could introduce him, the strong-built man let out a loud laugh and ran over to Tyrellius, throwing his arms around him in a brotherly embrace. As he turned to Crixus, he grinned.

"Servius?" he asked. "Servius Crixus? All grown up! Gods, it's been too long! Come here, my dear cousin!"

"And you are?" Crixus asked.

"Hieronymous!" the man greeted with a smile. Crixus saw that the gentleman was much like him in features: aside from the similarity in hair cuts, he also had a scruffy, unshaven face and blue eyes. "Come now, don't tell me you don't remember me! We used to play in the streets of Anvil together! Do you remember Butto's Bakery?"

"Yes, Butto's Bakery!" Crixus replied, his own face widening in a grin. "Surius would give us a septim and we'd..."

"...buy sweet-rolls!" Hieronymous added. "Remember when we played knights and daedra near the woods of Kvatch? Oh, grandpa Caius was furious!"

"Yes, yes, I remember now!" Crixus said. "You were the little one, always running behind Severus and I, always trying to keep up with us."

"I bet I could outrun you now" Hieronymous proposed.

"Outrun me?" Crixus laughed. "Please, I've been in the Legion! They teach you how to run there!"

"I've been in the Legion too," he replied. "4th Legion, guarding the Valenwood border."

"Come come," Surius interjected. "This is not the time to be comparing scars; we're all far too sober!"

"I believe you've already met my eldest daughter?" Hieronymous said, gesturing to Selena, who was taking her place at the right-most table. "This is my wife Fralvia, my youngest one Butto and my daughters..."

"Priscilla and Sibylla," Crixus stated. "Yes, Selena told me."

Having made their greetings to the Countess and to their father, Hieronymous and his family took their seats across the table from Tyrellius and Decimus, on the right-hand table with Selena. Already it was appearing to be very crowded and the noise level was starting to rise. At this point, Selvia rose up and clapped her hands.

"Well," she said with a wide, beaming grin. "It looks like almost everyone is here. I'll send for the cook to set the table and pour the wine."

"Finally!" Surius roared.

"All I care about is dessert," Hieronymous stated. "Will there be brandy this time?"

"If your aunt allows it," Surius replied. "I've been able to procure a fine 189 vintage that I've been aching to share with someone."

"Too fancy for your evening outings, father?" Hieronymous asked.

"Don't take that tone with me, boy!" Surius retorted, though there was no malice in his voice. He then added with a smirk. "After all, you don't drink port while pursuing a woman. You drink alto wine."

"Where is Severus, auntie?" Decimus asked. "Shouldn't he be here?"

"Severus!" Crixus interjected. "He's here too?"

"He came back a week after Petruvius' arrival," Selvia stated over the din. "He's staying at the mansion, but I don't know if he could make it. He is, after all, in the Emperor's personal guard."

Crixus nodded, though his fears were starting to build up. During the conflict with Thelgil and the Thalmor in Skyrim, he had been forced to work alongside Severus Maro in public rather than private, as he would have preferred. From that interaction, he judged that, unlike his son, Severus had grown up to be a disciplined soldier. He did his duty with little or no mention of their personal life and had not even brought up the letters Crixus never answered. But now he feared that he would be put on the spot, and in front of so many newly-met family members.

"What about you, my boy?" Surius asked. "Any women in your life?"

Crixus grinned, thankful for good ol' uncle Surius to take his mind off of the uncomfortable things. "There are women."

"Women or one in particular?" Surius asked.

"Several," Crixus added.

Surius laughed. "That's my boy! Never a dull moment in the bedroom, eh? Keeping things nice and fresh, just like your uncle."

"That's not a good habit, Servius," Selvia stated. "You may develop the reputation of being..."

"An excellent fornicator!" Surius roared. "If he's got Maro blood in his veins, he's as lusty as the best of us!"

"Father!" Decimus groaned.

"He's not lying, you know," Hieronymous added. "The men in our family are virile and have children at a young age. I myself was twenty when Selena was born."

"Counte...Selvia," Crixus spoke, then corrected himself as her hand went up to remind him. "This certainly is quite a family reunion. But there must be a few missing: if you know about me, then surely you must know about Venerius, or the other two."

At this, the whole dinner table was hushed. All eyes turned towards Crixus, who realized that he had said something that he shouldn't have. As if to compound his worry, Selena shushed him from over where she sat with her father and her mother.

"No, he should know," Selvia stated. She then turned to Crixus. "I'm terribly sorry, Servius. Since he left for the Legion, there has been no word of him."

"No word?" Crixus asked, turning to Surius. He shook his head. Crixus turned back to Selvia. "But he's not dead. I-I remember hearing about him while I was in Skyrim."

"You were in Skyrim?" Decimus asked.

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "I served the Legion there under General Tullius."

"Did you kill any barbarians?" one of Tyrellius' boys asked.

"Yes," Crixus replied.

"What about the mountain?" Tyrellius asked. "High Hrothgar, is it? Did you get to see it?"

"There's no place in the southern holds," Crixus answered. "Where you can't see that mountain."

"How's the mead?" Hieronymous asked.

"Terrible," Crixus replied.

"What did the country look like?" Fralvia asked.

"Oh, horrible," Crixus added. "Bleak and gray in summer as well as in winter."

"And the women?" Surius asked. "How are they?"

"Big, fat and far too hairy," Crixus stated. "Everywhere: their arms, their legs, their faces, their cun..."

"Not you too!" Selvia groaned.

"It's the truth," Crixus stated. "I would be a poor uncle to my newly-found family if I gave a false report about the worst province in the Empire."

"Is it really as dangerous as they say?" Marcella asked.

"Gods, yes," Crixus replied. "I couldn't go two steps out of an inn without some drunken sod trying to prove his manhood by brawling me. Then, if you manage to get out of the city walls, you're instantly accosted by the worst Skyrim has to offer: wolves, saber-cats, rebels, giants, bandits, trolls, ice-wraiths, spriggans, wisp mothers, draugr, the ice tribes, barbaric Nords living in mud-huts, wearing bones for clothing. Once, I swear, I had to fight for my life against two of Skyrim's most dangerous creatures: the Udyrfrykte and the Gehennoth. To say nothing of dragons, also."

"Dragons!" one of Tyrellius' little boys shouted. "Did you really fight dragons?"

"Don't be silly," Decimus interjected. "There are no dragons in Tamriel."

"Now, trust me," Crixus said. "I'm not one to throw any weight on unfounded rumors, but there were dragons. I actually killed a few."

"Really!" the boy exclaimed.

"Don't tell stories, Crixus," Tyrellius chuckled. "No one can kill a dragon."

"We don't know it," Hieronymous interjected. "There haven't been dragons in Tamriel in centuries, so we don't know if there's something that can kill them. Maybe our beloved cousin knows something we don't?"

"Really," Marcella scoffed. "_He_ knows more than everyone else in all of Tamriel?"

"It's a thought," Hieronymous added, shrugging his shoulders.

* * *

By this time the servants arrived and were setting the table with dishes, utensils, bread, salt and cups for the wine: the latter of which brought great delight to the heart of Surius. As Crixus examined the table, he noticed two seats to the right of Surius' wife Caldana that were empty, as well as two seats to Selvia's left that were also empty. At last the wine was served and Surius began to reach for his cup when Selvia rose up from her seat and proposed a toast.

"To our family," she said, a smile on her face. "May the Divines bless and keep us in all that we set forth to accomplish. 'Family and Service!'"

"Hear hear!" Surius shouted, raising his glass higher than the rest. They all cheered and took up the toast, though the young children were not permitted to drink. Surius practically downed his glass and placed it on the table, waving for a servant to refill it. Crixus savored the tasted: it was not as strong or bitter as the beers he was accustomed to, nor did it have the corny after-taste of matze or sujamma's sickly-sweet, syrupy sensation.

"It's certainly a fine vintage," Crixus stated, turning to Selvia. "I'm impressed that you were able to acquire such a fine wine, considering everything I've heard about you."

"I may be charitable with my wealth," Selvia stated. "But we're not poor. Zenithar has blessed this family with good fortune."

"And a skilled administrator!" Surius added. "You are far too modest, my niece."

"Is it truly thus?" Crixus asked. "Everything I've heard about your family seems...too good to be true."

"Well, we certainly have our...oddities," Selvia began, nodding towards Surius who was now gulping down his second glass of wine and gesturing with his other hand for the servant to pour wine for Hieronymous and Tyrellius. "But we do our best to bring honor to our family and do right by the people of Anvil." She sighed. "Of course, that is easier said than done."

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"There are some in Anvil," Selvia answered. "Who are not pleased with my rule. They do their best to undermine the family, to slander our name in the streets." She nodded at Surius. "We certainly don't make their job difficult, as you can see. I would punish them, but they've managed to evade all capture. After all, they're not breaking any laws by speaking their minds about me, no matter how false their accusations might be."

"What accusations?" Crixus asked again.

"They say that I am weak and ineffective as a ruler," Selvia stated. "That I prefer the company of women over men, that I regularly practice nepotism to place my incompetent family into positions of high regard!"

"Do their words have any weight?" Crixus asked.

"Crixus, how could you!" Selena exclaimed.

"No, no, it's alright," Selvia sighed, dismissing her niece's disapproval. "He's new to the intrigue of the court, he only asks out of curiosity." She then turned to Crixus. "Regarding the accusation of being weak and ineffective, this is not true. While we have escaped the ravages of the Great War, Anvil is not without its own criminal element. I punish criminals as I see fit, and I do not give them more punishment than is due. Many are of the belief that because I try to be fair and generous, they are at liberty to take advantage of my supposed fairness."

"It's not supposed, Selvia!" Surius interjected. "Gods, you're harder on yourself than the Urtius bastard!"

"I have to be hard on myself, uncle!" Selvia stated. "My place is to serve them, therefore I must push myself to serve them better." She then turned back to Crixus. "As for the other accusation, it is true, I am unmarried. I am not naive and I know how things must work, especially for a countess. I have yet to find a man who respects my choices and will govern with me in fairness and justice. For me, finding a husband is a difficult matter: they all think they can become Count of Anvil through me!"

"I see how that would be frustrating," Crixus noted.

"As far as nepotism," Selvia stated. "I try to show as little favoritism as possible. Hieronymous and Tyrellius got their commissions in the Legion by their own merits. And I did not arrange their marriages."

"She didn't," Surius interjected, leaning over to Crixus. "But Hieronymous?" He gestured with his empty cup towards Hieronymous, then shouted for the servant to bring him more wine. "I was the one who got him together with Fralvia." He leaned in, pressing his finger to his lips. "Don't tell him I did, though. He hates when I bring it up!"

"Squire," Selvia spoke to Petruvius. "You've been very quiet in all of this. Have you not anything to say?"

"My place is to listen and pay attention, Your Highness," Petruvius spoke.

Selvia nodded, then turned to Crixus. "I hope that you will stay with us, at least for a while."

"How long is a while?" Crixus asked. "I have business to attend to."

"What business brings you to Anvil?" Selvia asked. "I've been too busy to ask you, and Selena never brought it up."

"Yes, what _does _bring you here?" Surius asked. "Business..." He chuckled. "...or pleasure?"

"I'm traveling the counties, so to speak," Crixus stated. "Seeing the sites, meeting new people, doing my service to the Empire."

"If you plan on going outside of Anvil," Hieronymous interjected. "You will do well to stay clear of abandoned forts, dark woods or Ayleid ruins. The animist cults are not friendly to civilized folk."

"Animist cults?" Crixus asked.

"Crazy people," Hiernoymous explained. "They've left the towns, villages and cities to live in the wild, wearing animal skins and worshiping beasts."

"Like the barbarians of the North," Marcella added.

"They're not like the Nords," Decimus interjected. "Djem in the Fighters Guild has had some run-ins with them before. He says they're disillusioned and discontented people, people who've grown tired of all the in-fighting, squabbling of the counts and weakening of the Church of the Divines."

"But-But this is Cyrodiil!" Crixus stated, disbelief in his eyes. "The greatest province in all of Tamriel, the center of cosmopolitanism, progress and culture. Why should our people feel anything other than pride and contentment?"

"Some of them have left towns where they were starving," Decimus added. "Unable to pay the high taxes and forced to scratch a living on the streets. Then they have the skooma dealers and the Merchants Guild to haggle with and they barely have enough to fend for themselves. Her Highness is a good ruler, but outside these walls...Cyrodiil is falling apart."

"I-I don't believe it!" Crixus dismissed.

"Well you can believe whatever you want," Decimus interjected. "The truth is waiting for you, if you have the balls to see it for yourself."

"Please, please," Surius interjected. "No more fighting, if only for tonight! I don't want to be put off my appetite!"

At that moment, the doors opened again and the servants came out with the food. There was first a smoked porpoise, its flesh black with thick blood, coupled with roasted and steamed vegetables and a stock in which the porpoise and the greens swam. There was also several dishes of spiced ponce, which made Crixus' mouth water, along with fried shrimp, oysters seasoned with lemon juice, a goose that was as prominent as the porpoise, and several rice bowls that were served with greens and fish. Most of the dishes consisted of fish.

"We have a saying here in Anvil," Surius said to Crixus. "'We eat fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner, all four seasons of the year.'"

"There is enough for everyone here," Selvia stated. "Do save room for dessert, though. We're having ice-berries from Hammerfell in sweetened cream." All the children squealed at this.

"And port!" Surius exclaimed, now into his fourth glass of wine. "I want to get pissed with my sons and my long-lost nephew!"

Crixus expected by this time Selvia to say something in retort, but she was eying the door, one hand often going up to her lips in concern.

"Where is he?" he heard her mutter.

"Who?"

"Severus," she replied. "He's never this late."

They all continued on their dishes, enjoying the succulent, fresh, salted and spiced meat from all corners of Cyrodiil: the fish and other seafood were local and most of the land-based and more exotic dishes were from the Nibenay Basin, the river-lands. It was truly fine food, finer, in Crixus' estimation, than anything he had tasted in Skyrim.

While they were thus engaged, talking, chatting, eating and drinking, Petruvius nudged Crixus' shoulder and gestured towards the main doors. There they saw, to Crixus' trepidation, Severus Maro walking into the hall, still clad in his Penitus Oculatus armor. Behind him was a Redguard woman wearing a headdress that kept all of her hair hidden: her dress was in the Colovian style, with a breast-plate of gold and jewels hanging upon her shoulders. At their arrival, Selvia rose from her seat and gestured for the others to rise as well. Crixus rose, still somewhat ashamed at his presence.

"It's good to see you alive and well, Servius," Severus Maro greeted with a fist pounded upon his chest. "It's a long way from Solitude, is it not?"

"Yes, it is," Crixus nodded. "Though I hear that you got back here before me."

"After the siege fell," Severus replied. "I did as you requested: I sent the Haafingar garrison back to their camps, telling them that they would be compensated once I returned to Cyrodiil. But when I came back to Anvil, they said you weren't here yet."

"Livia, my dear sister-in-law," Selvia greeted the Redguard. "Please, allow me to introduce the son of my aunt Claudia: Servius Crixus."

"_This_ is Servius Crixus?" Livia asked, gazing at Crixus with her dark eyes.

"Yes, this is the one, Livia!" Severus replied, turning to the woman.

Livia walked over to where Crixus stood. She did not speak, but the way her lower jaw protruded out at him gave her face a profound look of disapproval. Crixus rose up to his feet and bowed before her, trying to give a smile under the auspices of her piercing eyes. Then, out of nowhere, she slapped him across the face. Everyone exclaimed, stopping their eating and turning to look at what happened.

"Twenty years, you ass-hole," Livia seethed. "Twenty years my husband wrote to your ungrateful ass and you never answered him back!"

"Livia, please," Severus interjected. "This isn't the time or place for this!"

"_I_ won't have any other time or place!" Livia roared angrily.

"My love, he was in Morrowind!" Severus added. "His letters must have gotten lost, maybe stolen and burned by House Redoran."

"Stop defending him!" Livia shouted, then turned back to Crixus, fire in her dark eyes. "You think you're too good for this family? To ignore my husband for twenty years, after all he's done for you? All the good things he's said about you?" She glared at him in disgust from down her wide nose. "You are dead to me." Her lower jaw quivered. "Just like my son!" With a loud, heartrending wail, she ran towards the door and left the dining hall. Severus quivered for a moment between the table and the door, then turned back to Selvia.

"My apologies, sister," he said. "She is still grieving. I tried to say she didn't have to come here, but when she heard that Crixus was here, she demanded to come and see him."

"Another chapter of the great Maro family history," Crixus groaned.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Servius," Severus said, hanging his head in shame. "She still grieves heavily over Gaius' death."

"It's alright, brother," Selvia interjected. "You go and comfort your wife. There will be plenty of time to speak with Servius later. You will be staying with us, right, Crixus?"

"For a little while," he evasively replied.

"There you have it, then," Selvia returned. "Go be with your wife, comfort her. I'll have the cook save you roasted porpoise."

"And a glass of port!" Surius added.

"You're all too much," Severus stated, speaking to all of those around him. "Thank you all for inviting me...us to this feast." He turned to Crixus, a fond grin on his face. "And welcome home, Servius." With that, he turned about and left the dining hall.

"Poor man," Surius muttered. "He bears a heavy burden." He then picked up his glass, which was now on its fifth helping of wine. "Let us, however, think of happier thoughts. I hear that a new volume of _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ is going to be released soon!" Hieronymous and Tyrellius laughed, Decimus and Selvia buried their faces in their palms and Crixus rose his glass.

"To families," he toasted. "I...I never knew how much I would want one until I met you all. Long live the Maro family!"

"Yes, long live the Maro family!" Surius retorted, drinking to Crixus' toast. He then called for the servant to fill his glass. "Now, let us talk no more of sad things! Let the food be eaten and wine flow like water! Let us all be merry as maids and drunk as Nords!"

* * *

**(AN: Insert here someone complaining about too much dialogue, just as how there was a complaint about too little dialogue in that one chapter of _The Dragon of the South_. Lol, i kid. But still, this chapter was very dialogue-heavy. Most of it, of course, was introducing a bunch of new minor characters. The trouble with writing new characters is that, unlike the other stories set in _Skyrim_, i can't depend on reader-bias as far as the characters go [_Skyrim_ fans like Aela the Huntress, so they'll like her if she's in a story: they don't know Selvia Maro or Surius Maro or Silenius Petruvius, so i have to create characters for them that people will, hopefully, like]. Surius is that one, fifty-something drunkle [drunk uncle] that everyone has who refuses to get old: obviously someone Crixus will hit it off well with, despite him wearing that ridiculous Colovian fur helmet. As far as Livia Maro [that's not her birth name, just for your information], she is different in that she's not as accepting of Crixus as the others.)**


	5. Anvil

**(AN: Okay, after fixing a few grammatical errors in the last chapter [still unconvinced i got them all: reviews would help, though], i think it's time to get the main story going. Things are going to start happening and Crixus will start figuring things out, things that, as we saw a hint of in the first chapters, are not things he wants to know: here's a cue for you, compare and contrast his depiction of _Skyrim_ from the previous chapter with how Cyrodiil is described towards the beginning of this chapter.)  
**

**(I really did not want to toot my horn in the author's note of the last chapter [lol, actually i forgot to put it there], but there was a part in the last chapter that moved me to tears while i was writing it. Try and see if you can guess which part that was.)**

* * *

**Anvil**

Crixus did not get the chance to ask even half of the questions he had intended to ask Countess Selvia Maro that evening at dinner. After Severus and Livia left, the feast went on until the wee hours of the night. They ate, talked, laughed and joked well, as if no time had passed between them. Crixus spent most of his time listening and watching, as well as drinking with his uncle Surius. After five glasses of wine, he was red-faced and jollier than he had been when he first entered the dining hall, calling for music and sending more and more wine to his sons Hieronymous and Tyrellius: true to his promise, he broke out the 189 Colovian brandy and enjoyed himself thereby. There were no naked dancing and no women brought in, but Crixus was amused nonetheless.

As the hour was getting late, Selena, Caldana, Decimus and the families of Hieronymous and Tyrellius were dismissed and sent to their rooms. But the Countess and old Surius stayed up until later, for they had much to discuss and were of such suitable company that, try as they might, they could not bring themselves to say goodnight. During this time, Crixus retold them much of what happened to him after leaving his home to join the Legion. As he felt certain things were of a great personal nature, he left out the matter of his 'goddess', courting Elisif or anything to do with the Dark Brotherhood or the Thalmor. However, he could not hide the fact that he held a particularly strong disdain for the Nords and their traditions, that the Jarl of Solitude, or 'earl' as he called her, held him in particularly good graces and that circumstances often took him away from his duties.

"What an incredible tale!" Surius remarked. He was still tipsy from all of the wine and brandy he had drunk, but was not shouting and swaying in his seat as much as before. "I heard that the 9th Legion had vanished towards the end of the War, but Severus claimed that you were still alive. I should like to meet your friends, what were their names? Gorak gro-Shagk, Shaddar al-Malik and Torgrim Stone-crusher. They sound like interesting people."

"Fine soldiers, all of them," Crixus stated. "My only regret was that Torgrim was not old enough to be in the 9th Legion with me. He'd certainly have sent those Dominion bastards running, I'll tell you that."

"And what about this Nord you mentioned?" Selvia asked. "This...what did you call him? Dragon-born? Eric or something."

"Eirik," Crixus replied. "But Eric is a rough rendering of the name in our tongue. What do you want to know about him?"

"You've spoken very little about him," Selvia noted. "But he seemed to play a significant role in your time in Skyrim. He helped you defeat Miraak, was with you when you besieged Castle Volkihar and served under you when you fought the Dominion in the western holds."

Crixus sighed. "There was...not a lot to talk about him. He served his lord the very best way he knew, but, apart from that, there was nothing unique or special about him."

"But you said he was a rebel, right?" Selvia asked.

"His allegiance was to his people," Crixus groaned. "It was a great pity that his allegiance put him at odds with his rightful rulers."

"You said he had a wife, right?" Selvia asked. "And children later?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "He married one of the over-large warrior women of Skyrim. They adopted a child and later bore one of their own conception."

"What's wrong with warrior women?" Surius suggested. "They're loyal to a fault, will kick the arse of anyone who messes with you..." He chuckled. "...and are fierce as mountain lions in the bedroom."

"Did he love them?" Selvia asked.

"How should I know?" Crixus retorted. "He was a Nord; they love death and battle and all things savage and barbaric. I don't know if they're even capable of being loving or caring, like us civilized folk."

"See, that I don't understand," Selvia noted. "You say very little about this Eric, or Eirik, whatever his name is, and yet you're very critical of Nords as a whole. Why is that?"

"Do I _need_ a reason to show displeasure at how Nords behave themselves?" Crixus asked. "They're liars, thieves, oath-breakers, murderers, bigots, barbarians."

"Maybe in the distant past," Selvia dismissed.

"No, they are this way still," Crixus added.

"Well, then," grumbled Surius. "You will find yourself among many like-minded people here in Cyrodiil. Ever since the rebellion broke out, sentiment towards the Northern folk have not been warm in the counties."

"With good reason," Crixus replied. "They murdered everyone at the Markarth Incident, then tore the Empire apart with this foolish little Civil War, endangering all of our lives and the stability of the Empire as a whole."

"But we cannot forsake our own people," Selvia stated.

"They're our people in name only," Crixus retorted. "They want to be separate and unique and independent? I say let them be, and the Dominion take them all!"

"Surely you don't mean that," Selvia shook her head. "They are still citizens of the Empire. We cannot hope to stand against the Dominion if we ostracize our own people."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "No, our people, _our_ people...they live in the eight counties of the Colovian Highlands and the Nibenay Riverlands."

"But we will need the help of _all_ of the peoples of the Empire," Selvia replied. "If we are to survive these trying times. Have you not heard of the plague in the eastern counties?"

"No," Crixus shook his head.

"There are reports," she stated. "Coming from Leyawiin and Cheydinhal of a plague moving westward. You remember what Decimus told you about the animist cults? They are gaining many followers because the people feel the Divines have abandoned them. The reports coming from Cheydinhal are the worst: revolution, plague, blood in the streets, and neither the Countess of Cheydinhal nor the Emperor nor the Elder Council have lifted a finger to help. I've opened my gates to as many refugees as I could, but I fear for the people, in case the plague should spread."

"What are you saying?" Crixus asked. "That-That the Elder Council, the Countess of Cheydinhal, wouldn't care about their own people?"

"Politics, my boy," Surius stated. "Men and women all have their selling point. Besides, there are...certain people in the Imperial City, people that nobody crosses. Counts, generals, lords, chancellors, they all bow to them. These are not the days of Uriel Septim, my boy."

"I-I don't believe this," Crixus said, shaking his head. "The counts should do something. Surely they could raise armies and drive these people out of power."

Selvia chuckled grimly. "The House of Nobles uniting in anything? You might just as well ask Morrowind to rejoin the Empire! Every count is only after their own ends. They would only use a pact to erode the power of the other counts and usurp their power and place for their own."

"And why should that concern you?" Crixus asked. "You claim to have thoughts for no one else other than the people of Anvil?"

"Surely," Selvia replied. "It would be a great boon to the Maro family, to be the ones who saved the Empire. But that cannot be, not while the counts are continually fighting among themselves...or..." She sighed.

"Or what?" Crixus asked.

"With all the chaos going on in Cyrodiil these days," Surius finally spoke, an uncharacteristic hint of grimness in his voice. "There have been...many who have stricken out on their own. Not as animists, mind you, but as knight errands. Do you remember the tales you and the others used to act out as children? Knights and daedra and all?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded.

"It's been many years since there were true knights in Cyrodiil," Surius stated. "The counts are wealthy enough, through their dealings with the Merchants Guild, that they can raise large armies for the Emperor's needs, and the Legion is there for the greatest needs. But, in these days of uncertainty, many wealthy young men and women have risen up to fight as independent, un-landed knights. Some of them are only in it for their own glory, trying to find some kind of control in a world that seems so out of control, but some do fight for justice and the people of Cyrodiil."

"Isn't that what the Fighters Guild is for, though?" Crixus asked. "Provide civil defense and safeguard the people of the Empire?"

"The way my boy Decimus says it," Surius sighed. "Even the Fighters Guild is not immune to the politics of the day. According to him, they've been embroiled in a centuries long conflict with that other guild you talked about, my boy. The one from Skyrim, what was their name? The Brothers? Shield-Siblings?"

"The Companions," Crixus replied.

"Right, the Companions," Surius continued. "That's the one! They've been wanting to bring the Fighters Guild to Skyrim, but the Companions have refused them. There is little hope that the Fighters Guild can be counted upon to act as an unbiased arbiter of the interests of the people: these knights know this, which is why they have chosen to act on their own."

"You can't keep defending them, uncle," Selvia stated.

"They're my children, Selvia," Surius sighed. "I love them as much as the three who remained."

"But they've caused a scandal!" Selvia replied. "The Urtius bastard has used this to no end."

"Only him?" Surius asked.

"Marcella has not exactly been quiet on the matter," Selvia added. "She says it's because they're Caldana's children that they've misbehaved."

"It's not misbehaving!" Surius insisted. "They're seeking honor and prestige their own way, the only way they know."

"Wait, what are you two talking about?" Crixus asked.

Selvia sighed, rubbing the weariness out of her eyes. "Didn't Selena tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Crixus asked.

"I told her to show you the family records," Selvia groaned. "Why did she leave them out?"

"Leave what out?" Crixus asked again. "What are you two hiding?"

"It's my two youngest children," Surius groaned. "Surely you noticed the two empty seats at the table tonight on my side?"

"Yes, I noticed," Crixus nodded.

"They belong to my youngest children," Surius replied. "_My_ legitimate children, despite what Marcella says, born by Caldana: Alcedonia and Quintus. He was going to join the Legion and she the Fighters Guild, then, on the twenty-third birthday of my youngest, Quintus, they both disappeared. They have not returned since then."

"The way things are outside of our walls," Selvia muttered. "I would say..."

"Don't," Surius interjected. "Don't say it."

"But..."

"Don't say it, Selvia!" Surius insisted. "I refuse to believe that my babies are dead!"

"But that's just it," Selvia reasoned. "They're young and inexperienced. How could they have survived for almost two years in the country?"

"She's clever, my Alcedonia," Surius stated. "She would have found a way to survive, even if she had to live off strawberries and nirnroot."

Crixus watched while the two went back and forth, Selvia arguing as delicately as possible that the chances for the survival of her nephew and niece were, regrettably, slim and Surius insisting that they were still alive. While they were thus engaged, Petruvius, who was stifling a yawn, turned to Crixus.

"I think, sir," he muttered. "That we should excuse ourselves. This is, clearly, a matter they would not want to share with others, even with family."

"I think you're right, Petruvius," Crixus muttered. Clearing his throat, he rose up from his seat. "I feel that I must retire." He took up his cup, which had the last of his serving of Surius' 189 COlovian brandy, and toasted them. "I've always wanted to have a family, to belong somewhere. I see now that I have been given a new family from the very moment I arrived in Cyrodiil. Divines bless you all for your kind reception and even kinder acceptance." Selvia and Surius responded by raising their cups, but only Surius drank from his.

"Before you go, cousin," Selvia spoke. "I would like to ask a favor of you. While you are here, I would know what skills you have that I may put them to use."

"This is good," Crixus nodded. "I would like to earn my own keep while I'm here."

"Come to the throne room tomorrow morning, about eight o'clock," Selvia said. "If I'm not there, my steward Casimir will show you what you can do. Sleep well, Servius."

"Come here, my boy!" Surius asked, gesturing Crixus to him with one hand while the other held his cup. "Give your uncle a hug before you go to bed." Crixus rose from his chair and the large man wrapped his arms around Crixus' shoulders, muttering into his ear: "Shall I send someone up to your room for you?"

Crixus chuckled. "I can get my own women, uncle, thank you very much."

* * *

That night, Crixus slept on the bed in the room he had been given while Petruvius slept on the floor. It was quite a different change for Crixus from the hard, cold earth or the straw beds in the inns of Skyrim. Feather beds and soft sheets were something Crixus had not felt in years: he had always slept on a straw mattress as a child and, in the Legion, the ground or rigid bed-rolls and cots served as his bedding. In Mournhold, his bed was little better than a rug placed over a stone shelf in the side wall of his room. But here, on this soft bed, sleep seemed to come upon him swiftly, wrapping her arms around him like Elisif's embrace. As if to compound his feeling of warmth and acceptance, his sleep was bereft of dreams and visions: not one apparition haunted his sleep that night, not Sedris, the dead children in the Imperial City or Solitude, _her_ face, the Grey Spirit or even the Night Mother.

He awoke with the sunrise, fully refreshed, and, after washing himself (thank the Divines the house actually had a proper bath instead of a single basin of water to be shared by all like those damn Nords), he found a pretty young servant girl waiting for him at the entrance of the bath-room with a linen towel and a new change of clothes.

"Her Highness," the servant-girl explained. "Has provided you with a new change of clothes to wear while you stay here."

"Tell her I send my regards," Crixus stated as he rose from the tub. "Later, of course."

By the time Crixus had finished his business and gotten dressed, it was five minutes after eight o'clock. He wore trousers that were snug-fitting with a clean white shirt covered by a simple jacket. The hem and belt had the design of Anvil's sigil sewn into the fabric and he wore sandals upon his feet: decent Legion sandals rather than boots. Swiftly he went to the throne room, where he saw the Countess seated upon her throne, with a Redguard at her side with whom she was speaking. When she noticed Crixus' arrival, she sat up and spoke to him.

"Ah, there you are," she said. "I was beginning to wonder when you would arrive."

"My apologies, Your Highness," Crixus replied, remembering his place. "I was...indisposed."

"Over simple toiletry habits?" she asked with a knowing grin.

"You must understand, Your Highness," Crixus continued. "I've lived almost twenty years in Mournhold: we have...different cleaning habits over there. We do not even wash, for water is precious. During my time in Skyrim, I kept this tradition as the Nords had a rather...disgusting tradition for their washing. They would use the same water for every cleaning habit - their hair, their faces, their mouths, their noses - without changing it. It will take a long time to accustom myself to these new cleaning habits."

"As you say," Selvia replied. "Now, then, I would like you to go to the Count's Arms and ask about Cassius Urtius. Also, there is a man, a merchant named Falco Signius, who can be found at the Anvil Exchange. I would like you to speak to him in my stead regarding 'the Hammerfell matter.' He will know of what I speak."

"It shall be done," Crixus nodded.

"Also," she added. "If you find yourself in need of gear, seek out the Fighters Guild Hall in the city, or the armory here in the castle. Speak to Captain Roderic in the barracks and he'll help you get what you need."

"Are there no other armories in the city?" Crixus asked.

"No, there are not," Selvia replied. "For Imperial law states that no weapons shall be born in public or owned by any not belonging to the local city guard, soldiers of the Imperial Legion or the Fighters Guild. This is why I presented you with new clothes: can't be caught wandering about the city streets armed like some kind of soldier or ranger."

"What if I need to fight?" Crixus asked.

"Why?" she chuckled. "Are you expecting a battle?"

"One can never be too safe, Your Highness," Crixus replied.

"If you run into trouble," she answered. "Simply call for the guards. They will answer you and come to your aid."

Crixus said nothing. It was a point of great annoyance, being in Skyrim and seeing everyone - from travelers on the road to Belethor in his general goods store in Whiterun or even Ingun Black-Briar in Elgrim's Elixirs - carrying a weapon as small as a knife. It reminded him that, if he was caught stealing, there would be dire consequences. But a weapon in the hands of a Nord, even one so small as a knife, was just asking those savage-minded brutes to attack any unsuspecting Colovian merchant or Imperial loyalist if they disagreed with them. Though this had never happened often with Crixus, the fear of Nordic aggression was always on the back of his mind. Though he certainly felt naked without a weapon, he was glad that Imperial law made things safer back home.

Immediately after receiving his orders from the Countess, Crixus went to Petruvius and saw that he too was getting himself dressed and ready. Crixus relayed to him what they would be doing that day, and told him to leave behind his weapons but to conceal one of Crixus' knives on his person. Rules and customs were fine and dandy, but Crixus, ever the rebel, wanted to be sure that he was well protected by someone he trusted.

* * *

As they left the castle and returned to the city, Crixus paused for a moment to gaze upon the Maro manor house. It stood across the street from the Chapel of Dibella and was, for Crixus, a place of many fond memories. He had grown up in a little house on the northwestern side of town, but coming here was always something which he relished. Even now it seemed that the manor had not changed one bit from how Crixus remembered it: that made him happy. If only Severus could be like this manor house, instead of destroying all of the good memories Crixus had of him and their time together with those letters.

They went on their way, following the road into the main part of town, looking for the Count's Arms. While they were on their way, Crixus spotted Decimus Maro going into a building near the center of town with a sign that bore a shield and two swords: the emblem of the Fighters Guild. His entrance was more than clandestine: he seemed to be constantly looking over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be following him. Crixus was about to order Petruvius to follow him when a gaggle of children came running by them. Crixus swiftly caught the wrist of a short, plump one at the back of the group that had bumped into him.

"Steal anything from me, little boy," Crixus hissed. "And I'll cut off your hand!"

The boy dropped the coin purse he had been holding, then ran away crying and wailing. Crixus picked up his purse and turned back to Petruvius.

"Children," he dismissed. "Tell you the truth, I think I'd kill myself if I were forced to father one of those little monsters: to say nothing of raising one of them!."

"We were all children once, my lord," Petruvius stated.

"Don't remind me," Crixus groaned.

After the encounter, Crixus overheard a group of townsfolk talking about the Dominion nearby. He and Petruvius slowed their pace down to hear what they had to say. All that they heard, however, was nothing essential to them: talk about the recent military activity in Skyrim, which most of those present wisely denied had occurred. Best to keep the local populace ignorant to the wholesale murder in Solitude.

As it was their first stop, they came to the Anvil Exchange. The fine structure had quite a few people in front of it as well as milling about it, bringing barrels from the docks in wheel-barrows, carrying sacks on their bags, or talking with men in fine clothes. Crixus pawed his way through these, with Petruvius following along behind, despite the protests and cries to wait their turn. Crixus was on a task for the Countess and he would not allow anyone to delay him. Into the Exchange building he went, and found it very much like the antechamber of the throne room of the Blue Palace in Solitude. That is to say, filled with people from all over Tamriel, rich people, with their entourage of guards or some of them alone, many of them chatting away endlessly to themselves or those close at hand.

He did not have long to wait, for as soon as he had entered, Crixus noticed a few along the sidelines of the building whispering to themselves and pointing towards him. No sooner had he examined the room but a young page, a woman no older than Selena with simple robes, a gold chain about her neck and short-cropped hair, approached him and bowed respectfully.

"Welcome to the Anvil Exchange," she greeted. "If you will present your badge of admittance, I will see to it that your transaction with us will be swift and profitable."

"I don't have a badge," Crixus replied. "But I am here to speak to one Falco Signius on behalf of the Countess of Anvil."

At this, the page seemed quite taken aback by Crixus' boldness.

"Your pardon, sir," she replied. "But Signius is the Lord Mayor of the Anvil Exchange. He is a very busy man, and unless you show me your badge of admittance, I cannot grant you access to him."

"Can you at least tell him I am here?" Crixus asked.

"That will cost you fifty septims, sir," she stated.

"What?" Crixus exclaimed, turning more than a few faces of those around him. "Fifty drakes for a message?"

"Your pardon, sir," the page continued. "But guild services are not free of charge to those who have no badge of admittance."

"Yeah?" Crixus asked. "And what is a badge of admittance?"

"Everyone who is a member of the Merchants Guild," the page explained. "Receives a badge of admittance." She held up the gold chain that hung about her neck, which bore a small coin that looked like a septim, only that it bore a set of scales upon it rather than the face of the Emperor. "This signifies that you are a member of the Merchants Guild and authorizes you to receive special treatment."

"'Special treatment?'" Crixus asked.

"Yes," the page replied. "We offer most of our services to the public, for a fee, but those who are members of the Guild have most of those fees waived or reduced, as well as access to greater and more lucrative services, as well as exclusiveness and privacy. Now, if you will excuse me, I am very busy today."

"And I'm not yet done here," Crixus interjected, placing a hand on the page's shoulder as she tried to leave. Petruvius nudged Crixus and gestured towards the edges of the room: several men in leather jerkins, wearing steel caps were looking at him, hands upon their belts as if they bore weapons. Crixus let go of the page and reached for his purse, and began to count out a few coins.

"Go and tell Falco Signius," he continued. "That one representing Countess Maro is here to talk to him about the Hammerfell matter. No more and no less. Do you understand?"

At this, the page received the payment and left Crixus and Petruvius in the crowded hall. Crixus watched as she went over to the men in leather armor and muttered something to them. These then ushered her into a room where she disappeared. A few minutes passed before she appeared again, walking towards Crixus and Petruvius and standing in their way.

"My master has allowed you permission to speak to him," she said. "But you will not enjoy this privilege again if you have no badge of admittance, and your servant is not allowed to accompany you. He must wait here until you return."

"You heard her," Crixus said, turning to Petruvius. He then leaned in and muttered; "What can a bunch of merchants do to me?"

In Crixus' mind, however, he was going over the ones he suspected of being armed. How they got weapons when, but a few minutes ago, the Countess told him that weapons were forbidden, was an issue he would have to bring up. But aside from that, he was sizing them up, seeing which ones he could most easily make conquest of should the need arise to fight his way out of the building. Most of them were very large, possibly Nords, and looked strong. He would have a tough time of it if he decided to fight.

"Lead on, then, boy," Crixus said to the page, a cheeky grin on his face.

Flanked by the large guards, the page led Crixus out of the main room and down a side passage. She parted a large Morrowind tapestry, so large that, though hung from the ceiling, it touched the floor, and revealed a secret spiraled stairway climbing up. Into this they went, going up the stairs until they reached a wooden door. The page knocked upon the door with three knocks, each one in slow, staggered succession. The door was opened and they entered a room that had once been an upper bedroom but had been refurbished into an office. There were many fine things hanging upon the walls or sitting on the shelves and tables in the room, but in the center of the room there was a desk cluttered with papers and a tall, thin, balding man in similar attire to the page helping a man seated at the table. The one at the table was very large, almost as large as uncle Surius, but he was a little younger: his hair was still dark brown, his beard was thicker and neither of which had gone gray.

"This is the one, lord mayor," the young woman page said. "The one who wanted to speak to you about the Hammerfell matter."

"Very well," the large man at the desk stated. "You are dismissed, Jocelyn." The page bowed, then walked back down towards the stairs and closed the door behind her. Meanwhile, the large man rose up to greet Crixus. He wore a rich fur cloak that was as dark as his hair, and a belt of gold to match the gold chain about his neck.

"You are Falco Signius, I presume?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, yes, I am," Signius replied. He sounded very annoyed, but not thoroughly impolite. "And you say that you are here on behalf of Countess Maro concerning Hammerfell?"

"Yes, I am," Crixus nodded.

"Well, I'm afraid, this is an open and shut case," Signius stated firmly. "Unless the Countess gives me full control over shipping rights to our Forebear friends in Sentinel, there is no deal that I would consent to signing."

"Full control?" Crixus asked.

"You must understand," Signius replied. "Trading with Hammerfell is a dangerous business. The threat of privateers from the Crowns and the King of Hammerfell is constant. The enmity they bear towards Cyrodiil for the events of that terrible War make many Redguards...unwilling to trade peacefully with us. The Merchants Guild insures that perfect harmony exists between our two nations and that the lines of trade will always be open, but certain...conditions must be met."

"And those are?" Crixus asked.

"I'm sorry," Signius sighed, returning to his desk and going over the papers thereon. "You are not one of us, therefore I have no further time to waste on you. Good day."

"Wait," Crixus interjected, taking a step towards Signius' desk. "What if I wanted to become part of the Merchants Guild?"

Signius looked up at Crixus. "Well, then, that changes things, doesn't it? Very well, what do you have to offer us?"

"I have connections in Skyrim," Crixus spoke. "Very powerful connections: ones whose services can insure that your problems are few. I was the prefect of Mournhold, so my name has some weight with the Dunmer." This was a lie, for Crixus remembered that there had been a revolt in Mournhold where the prefect's office had been destroyed. But he needed to sell himself, if only to keep Falco Signius' attention held. "And I myself am a man of many talents. I'm a soldier and a ranger, the best archer in all of Tamriel, I can pick any lock, sneak past any guard and break into anyplace without being spotted."

Signius leaned back in his chair, stroking his thick beard pensively. "Unless you are best friends with Maven Black-Briar herself, I am not interested in any connections from Skyrim. Furthermore, as the Black-Briar family was exiled from Riften, I would say your assets are limited in that respect. I also know that, since the destruction of the prefecture in Mournhold, the Empire has drastically fallen out of favor with the dark elves. However..." He steepled his fingers together.

"Your other skills are intriguing. Perhaps I may consider a place for you in our organization...pending a demonstration of your skills. If you, perchance, happen to be going eastward, towards Kvatch, I would ask that you speak to the Count there, Brachus Romulus. He has proven to be a thorn in the side of the Merchants Guild, evicting us from the city after a...disagreement concerning who owned the tariff rights with Anvil. You see, he thought that because he was the Count, the rights to regulate and collect tariffs should belong to him."

"And who should they belong to?" Crixus asked.

"Why, to the Guild, of course," Signius grinned. "Now then, since you are desirous of joining the Guild, I will tell you what you must do. Usually we sign up a little contract, you pay us a nominal fee of no less than five hundred septims, a badge of admittance is given you, we shake hands and the deal is sealed. However, you come to us, presenting skills, instead of business or capital. I must judge the usefulness of such skills before agreeing to your admittance, therefore I would like you to go to Kvatch and insure that Count Romulus agrees to our having complete control over all tariffs between Anvil and Kvatch." He opened a drawer of his desk and began to write something upon the paper.

"This writ," he explained. "Will give you temporary access to Guild services as far as the reacquisition of Kvatch is concerned." After he finished writing it, he turned to Crixus and asked for his name. Crixus gave him _S. Crixus_ and nothing else, which the lord mayor wrote into the paper, then handed it to Crixus.

"Take this with you when you go to Kvatch," Signius stated. "And tell Countess Maro that if she wants to continue to work with our allies in Hammerfell, she must sign over complete shipping rights to Falco Signius, Lord Mayor of the Anvil chapter of the Merchants Guild."

* * *

Crixus was escorted out of Signius' office and back down into the crowded lobby. There he met with Petruvius and the two of them left the building, Crixus confiding in him a little of what he had learned from the 'lord mayor.' Petruvius said nothing until Crixus had finished, making mental notes of everything he had heard. For, just like Eirik's late servant, he knew that Crixus would, at some point, have need of some memory or bit of information he had forgotten that he, Petruvius, had kept safe and secret in his mind. That time had not yet come, but Petruvius was willing to stake his life that it would one day in the near future.

"So what shall we do, then, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Have a drink at the Count's Arms," Crixus replied.

"I meant about this lord mayor Signius," he clarified.

"Oh, well, for the present, nothing," Crixus answered. "I will tell the Countess his response and keep the rest to myself for a later date." He noticed that Petruvius had uncharacteristically turned his attention away from him and towards the crowds around them in the streets.

"What is it?" Crixus asked. If Silenius Petruvius had turned his attention somewhere else, it was doubtless there was good reason for it.

"I don't know, sir," Petruvius replied, shaking his head. "But I thought I saw someone following us. They disappeared just now, but I saw them stop as we went into the Exchange and then follow us again once we came out."

"Hmm," Crixus mused, but said nothing else. "Come, then, let's have a drink."

The Count's Arms was easy to find after a few minutes of walking from the Exchange. They waited outside the door and Petruvius kept his eyes open for their foot-pad. By ten o'clock, and with no sign of pursuit anywhere, they entered the rather upscale tavern. Crixus enjoyed himself a glass of wine and kept his eyes on the patrons gathered here today. There were a few unsavory figures here and there, mercenaries for the Fighters Guild looking for employment, off-duty guards, a few wealthier patrons off at a private table, enjoying sujamma imported from Mournhold, and the occasional song from a few drunk patrons.

They split up and casually walked among the tables, listening to what was being said. The topic of conversation varied, with some talking about how ineffectual the Legion postings along the Valenwood and Elsweyr borders truly were, others sharing their concerns about the plague, the animists, the civil war in Skyrim, rumors about the Thieves Guild and what wenches were the best lays. A few of them mentioned Cassius Urtius, but as far as Crixus and Petruvius could gather, he was not in the Count's Arms this day and no one knew where he lived.

"We don't go looking for him," said one of the patrons to his fellow, unaware that his conversation was not wholly private. "He comes into the streets or the taverns and says his peace, then those who are interested speak to him and he'll contact them in turn."

After walking about town for the rest of the day, filling his pockets from passersby whenever Petruvius wasn't looking, Crixus returned to the castle that evening. As he arrived at the throne room, the Redguard steward Casimir told him that the Countess was in the dining hall eating. The steward allowed Crixus to come before the Countess after announcing her, where he relayed to his cousin what Signius had told him about the Hammerfell matter. Selvia seemed flustered at Signius' proposal.

"Is that _all_ he wants?" she retorted. "The complete subjugation of my city's commerce under his rule? Surely there must be something half-way we might be able to discuss."

"He would not treat me with me, Your Highness," Crixus stated. "Unless I was part of the Merchants Guild."

"Damn him," she groaned.

"What about language, Your Highness?" Crixus asked with a grin.

"With Falco Signius, exceptions can be made," she retorted. "He thinks he can take what our family have built with his schemes and his blood money. Even his title, lord mayor, is an offense. There is only one mortal lord in Anvil, and _she_ is a lady."

"Are you saying that I shouldn't treat with them?" Crixus asked.

Selvia massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "No, you are free to do as you will. But I would caution you about getting in bed with the Merchants Guild, so to speak. They make excellent promises about fair dealings, profit and equal protection for all of those in their employ. Yet those promises come at a high price: too high, in my mind, to pay. They provide protection for their own, yes, but in buying this protection, you sell yourself to them completely. Your business is not your own, but belongs to them: your custom is no longer yours to spend where and how you will, but must be spent among the Guild members."

"That sounds like serfdom," Crixus stated. "Is that not what we already enjoy under the counts and the Emperor?"

"Careful, my cousin," Selvia stated, her face becoming deadly serious. "I honor the bonds of family, but what you say may be considered treasonous by those with ears less kind than my own."

"My apologies, Your Highness," Crixus replied, inclining his head respectfully. "I did not mean to question your right to rule. My father, despite what this family may believe, taught me to honor the Emperor and respect all forms of authority."

Selvia sighed. "I'm sorry if Selena gave you a bad impression. We did not all hate your father Valerius. True, my grandfather was not very fond of him, he felt as if he stole my aunt, your mother, from him. But we never blamed him for Claudia's death and we always welcomed you with open arms, as far as I can recall. But as for what you say, yes, from the opinion of an uninformed outsider, there is no difference between what we do to our subjects and what the Merchants Guild does to their members.

"However, looking deeper, we see that this is not the case. The counts do not hold their subjects under absolute serfdom. They are free to pack up and move wherever they feel their fortunes may be better served, and while lately the Elder Council have...attempted to pass sanctions that deliver more direct control into their hands, we are still more or less autonomous. This is not the case with the Merchants Guild, and that is one reason I oppose them."

"If I may ask, Your Highness," Crixus queried respectfully. "What purpose is served by making a deal with your enemy?"

"While I do not agree with the way the lord mayors of the Merchants Guild control their clients," Selvia stated. "I agree with some of their deeds. Repairing the old ties with Hammerfell would be beneficial to both of our nations, and it would strengthen the western counties' economies to reopen public trade with the Redguards. As it stands, I have a few arrangements made with friends of friends here and in Sentinel that keep a trickled route open between the cities."

"So you agree with their aims but not their methods...Your Highness?" Crixus asked.

Selvia smiled. "Diplomatically put, cousin. Were it not for your blunt and straight-forward language, I would wonder if you learned politics while in Mournhold."

Crixus chuckled. "Things were much different over there, Your Highness."

He dismissed himself, then sent Petruvius up to their room to prepare for him. Crixus was not going to bed right away, for he hoped to go back to the Count's Arms under cover of darkness and find this Cassius Urtius. From all of the talk, he hoped that he could find him there, spreading his seditious words under cover of darkness. Getting out of the castle was simple enough, for, to his surprise, the gates of the castle were not closed as he made his way out into the city. He wondered if the Countess was an over-trusting fool: she certainly did not seem naive enough to believe that no one would ever try to attack her. And yet the castle gate was open as late as eight o'clock and she met her subjects in the courtyard of her own castle.

The streets were almost completely deserted as Crixus made his way to the Count's Arms. Those who inhabited the night-clad streets besides himself were only a few beggars, clinging to the shadows and out of view. Crixus also kept himself to the shadows, hoping that if his quarry happened to look upon him, he might evade his sight. He had not turned left down the main drag when he noticed the faint light of a torch upon the cobblestones and a figure stretched out against its light. Throwing himself flat against the wall of the building to his left, he waited until the newcomer passed. In the light of the torch, he saw Decimus Maro making his way towards the Maro manor across the street. He knew that it was him for, as he was half-way across the street, he paused and looked over his shoulder. Crixus wondered why he was out this late: was it truly his dedication to the Fighters Guild which kept him so busy? His gait did not seem encumbered by drink, but then again, he could have inherited his father's outstanding ability to hold liquor stronger than the average man (Idolaf, a Nord, could certainly not have drank as much as uncle Surius had during the dinner feast without becoming a mess).

Once he was sure that Decimus had returned to the manor and was off the streets, Crixus continued down the streets in silence. His sandals scraped too much on the cobblestones: he would need to wear his boots again when going out, especially at night. It was a long way from here to the Count's Arms, most of which would be spent in darkness and evading the watchful eyes of the town guards. Their torches could be seen dotting the open streets and he did not want to explain why he was out at such a late hour. On and on he went, carefully avoiding the patrolling guards, until he was about half-way to the Count's Arms. It was then that he, chancing to look behind him, noticed a figure in a cloak and hood down the street from him at a distance. He wondered if this was the foot-pad Petruvius had seen earlier that day: there was only one certain way to know. He quickly ducked into the alleyway between the Synod office and a cluster of houses, his eyes turned towards the road. Within minutes the foot-pad would appear to see which way he went, then he would have him.

The minutes ticked by menacingly, each one more painful for Crixus to endure than the last one. His greatest fear was that his foot-pad was indeed following him, had ferreted his little slip and was going to come at him from behind, where he was not expecting attack. It angered Crixus that he felt that he might be losing his touch. It couldn't be, though: he had managed to sneak on-board the _Katariah_ without alerting anyone of his presence, had stolen repeatedly from Eirik's house in Whiterun as well as broken into Elisif's chambers without anyone being wiser and, as if those were not enough, had even mounted a rescue out from under the nose of the High Justicar. He couldn't be losing his touch, not after all the things he had been through.

Suddenly his heart stopped when he saw the hooded figure appear out in the streets in front of him. His little foot-pad had fallen for his trap and now it was time to spring shut the jaws. Quietly he leaped out of the shadows and wrapped his entire arm around the figure's mouth: whoever his foot-pad was, he was very small and thin. Using size as well as surprise as his advantages, Crixus dragged the foot-pad back into the shadows of the alley. Then, when he was sure he could not be seen, he summoned a ball of candlelight with his left hand and released his right arm's grip on the foot-pad's neck long enough to throw his hand upon the neck.

"Take your filthy hands off of me, you damn dirty slave!" a familiar voice gasped from through a throat held in Crixus' grip.

* * *

**(AN: This chapter ended on a cliff-hanger with one of our newer characters reintroduced. Lethia will have a significant part in this story, as, unlike _The Dragon of the South_, Crixus will not be traveling alone very much. This means he will be forced to deal with people who are very much like him and have personalities which annoy him [read. role reversal]. And don't worry, before Crixus leaves Anvil, i will have Surius remind him to mind his manners.)  
**


	6. A Deeper Infection

**(AN: Here we have the conclusion of what happened that night, as well as Crixus finally getting to meet Cassius Urtius [named after the infamous Cassius who, along with Brutus, murdered Caesar]. I wonder if you can guess what will be discovered in this chapter based on title alone. Also, thank you for the review, _Wetoos_. I'm not judging you for not liking the game [like my brother, he won't touch _Skyrim_ unless it's modded all to hell...and CTDs after less than a minute of play, therefore making the game unplayable], but i am judging you for liking the Thalmor. lol, I guess c*mberbatch-like high cheekbones, snotty British upper class accents and anti-white racism are turn-ons for you [and before you say "but Ulfric is...", that is a cop-out because he's a white, Nordic human and it's easy to dismiss any legitimate problems they may have with other peoples as racism.])**

**(I liked that _Skyrim_ had songs, like bard songs, that one could listen to at the inns and taverns. Since i am not only a writer but a poet and a musician, it should therefore behoove me, as it did Tolkien, to write songs to go with my stories. While that was not so much the case in the other stories, here i feel confident sharing some Colovian songs. The one that you will hear in this chapter is, unfortunately, not one of my compositions: it is an arrangement of "In Taberna Quando Sumus" with lyrics translated into the common tongue, rearranged for the setting and the melody from_ Crusader Kings 2_'s version of the same. Just thought it felt like an appropriate tavern song: there will be others in future chapters. Enjoy)**

* * *

**A Deeper Infection**

Crixus relaxed his grip upon seeing Lethia, pale in the light of his candlelight spell. He did not fully release his grip, but he was no longer trying to squeeze her to death.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"Following you, simpleton," she replied. "Now, be a nice slave and let me go!"

"You'll cry out," Crixus retorted.

"To who?" she asked. "I'm surrounded by your slave-people here, they'd tear me to pieces!"

Crixus released Lethia, who gasped and coughed for air: his face did not soften. It angered him to be constantly called a slave or filthy, since he saw himself as anything but that.

"So what are you doing, following me?" Crixus asked.

"I saw you being taken by those guards," Lethia replied. "So I left the ship and followed them as far as the pier. I could not enter the castle that day, so I stayed at the Flowing Bowl inn. It was terrible! So many slaves, everywhere, and none of them would serve me! I could not sleep last night, for fear that they might come into my room at night and kill me!"

"Alright, alright," Crixus groaned. "Enough with the slave thing."

"Why?" she asked.

Crixus angrily looked to the left, to see if the city guards were near, then replied. "Because humans aren't slaves anymore, that's why!"

"You've said that before," Lethia stated. "But your words have no meaning for me. Humans are slaves to the mer, that is the way it has always been."

"Look," Crixus groaned. "I don't have time to give you a history lesson here and now. We need to get inside."

"But how?" she asked. "The castle is sealed at night."

"Not tonight," Crixus stated. He then threw Lethia's hood over her head and, taking her by the hand, spend his way through the alleys in the general direction of the Chapel of Dibella. From here, he figured that he could make his way back to the castle even in the dark. However, as soon as they reached the Chapel and skirted around it to the gates that led to the bridge leading to the castle, they found that the gates were locked. Crixus swore underneath his breath at being locked out and wondered why they had locked the gates which, just before, had been open. Lethia, on the other hand, had another idea. With his hand on her wrist, she ran towards the Chapel of Dibella.

The doors were not locked and they entered into the Chapel without incident. Lethia led them into a darkened corner of the Chapel, illuminated by Crixus' candlelight spell, where she sat down against the stone wall.

"What are we doing here?" Crixus whispered. The bare stone walls made his whisper much louder than a mere whisper.

"This place," she said. "It will serve as a bed for us. Now, then, tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Give me a history lesson, gentle slave," she replied. "It will be better to hear that going to sleep than the sounds of the darkness." She shivered and, for one moment, Crixus once again felt pity on her. The blue glow of her eyes reminded him of when he first saw her, wounded and limping in the Forgotten Vale. Now again, seeing those eyes filled with terror as they gazed at the shadows, he realized her horror. For him, he had only been inside Dwemer ruins a few times: for Eirik, maybe a few times more. But they only came to visit and quickly returned to the world above. For her, that dark, filthy, brutal world of rotten meat, leprous chaurus and sleeping in one's own filth was the only life she knew. For how long she had languished in that dark world, cut off from the light of Auri-El, Crixus wondered if even Hermaeus Mora knew.

He had no cloak, or he would have draped it over her shivering form. But as he drifted off into sleep, he wondered where this new source of empathy came from. At first, he guessed, it was because he felt that the Snow Elves, the Falmer, had been oppressed by the Nords and that anything that frustrated and confounded the Nords was a good thing. But there were no Nords around now, no one watching to be offended at his treatment of kindness towards their 'enemies', so why did he continue? It certainly wasn't for any desire to learn anything from her, for he still refused to believe that any prophetic warnings were anything other than false.

"From what I know," he began. "In the First Era, thousands of years ago, Alessia led a revolt against the Ayleids and freed all of humanity." He then sighed, thinking of the Nords. "Well, all of humanity _worth_ being free, that is."

"Oh?" Lethia murmured. "You say there are those that do not deserve freedom?"

"The Nords," Crixus stated. "Not after what they did to you, to the Dunmer, to everyone."

"But what about your friend?" she asked. "The one you wanted to kill."

"I said the Nords do not deserve to be free," Crixus answered, speaking slowly and with jaw clenched. "And I stand by every word of that."

"Why?" Lethia asked.

"I already told you," Crixus answered.

"What the Nords did was thousands of years ago," Lethia replied. "Only my people could ever remember it, and it was not done to you. Why should you care if your masters are oppressed and abused?"

"Because Nords are still doing the abusing and the oppressing to this day," Crixus replied. "They act as if they have the right to rebel against their rightful rulers, their natural rulers. Like they have some grand moral authority to oppress the elves and 'lesser' men as they view people like...me."

"But was it not rebelling against your natural masters," Lethia asked. "When your Alessia freed the slaves?"

"That was different," Crixus replied. "She had the blessing of the Divines."

"_Our_ ancestors, not yours," Lethia clarified. "They would not turn against us. I don't believe it."

"Look, I don't pretend to know how the Divines behave," Crixus groaned. "Nor do I care. They don't exist, and if they did, they're mortal and not worth worshiping."

"You blaspheme even under the roof of their chantries?" Lethia murmured, as sleep began to take her at last.

Crixus scoffed. "You should have seen me at the Temple of the Divines in Solitude. I showed those deaf, feeble gods who is the _real_ master of this world. Man, Imperial Man! The kind of men who formed this Empire, who maintained it, who protect it from all of her enemies!" He was about to continue, then he looked down and saw Lethia was sleeping soundly. With a sigh, he too leaned against the wall next to the Snow Elf, and gazed at the stone wall.

* * *

How much time passed, Crixus did not know. Sleep did not come easily for some reason. His words spoken but a few moments ago were still hanging over his head, as if he had crossed a point to which could be no going back. Eirik _was_ the Grey Spirit, he just had to be. He hadn't been all that clever about hiding it, calling him the Wulfharth to Crixus' Talos that one time. It was exactly as Crixus had feared: the Grey Spirit, the Dragon of the North, had come down in a new body to punish him. Of course to punish him, for he was the heir, apparently, of the Septim dynasty. He would punish him for not doing his duty to become Emperor, but, Crixus assumed, if he did do just that, the Grey Spirit would punish him for not eradicating all of mer-kind. It was becoming clearer with each passing day from the first time he encountered Eirik: initially he seemed like just another fair-skinned, muscle-bound Nord with a modicum of Colovian learning. But then, as time went on, he appeared to be following in Ulfric's footsteps, taking up his hatred of the mer for his own.

Crixus' eyes grew heavy as he leaned against the inner wall of the chantry, but in his mind four words were being repeated. Not the five words, the command of the Night Mother to go forward. He had already gone forward and he hated what he saw. No, this time the words were only four, and from his own heart came they.

_Eirik _has _to die._

Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he realized that there was a light flooding the sanctuary. The light was not that of candles or a torch, so it couldn't be a priest or monk. He had dispelled the candlelight spell already, so it could not have been that. Curiosity drove his eyes towards the source of light, but even looking in its direction hurt his eyes. He covered his face with his wrist, fearful that even that momentary glimpse would leave him blinded forever. The light became brighter, and as it did, a sensation of intense heat was coming from it. The heat was so great that Crixus felt certain he would be consumed thereby; yet, looking down at the form curled up next to him, he saw that she was not roused one wit by this fearful light. He threw both of his arms up over his face, quivering where he sat; the light was growing brighter and the heat more intense that he would surely die if it came closer. Yet it continued its approach, apparently heedless of his agony.

Then, when it appeared that his flesh would certainly burst into flames upon his bones, the heat became less intense and a shadow passed over the light. His hands still shaking, he peeked out from between his arms and saw a figure hovering before him that seemed to be the source of the light. The figure was in the likeness of a woman, clad only in a pale skirt through which her legs passed through as if smoke. Her hair, born in long tresses, hung down over her breasts, shone like sunlight and, within her hair, there could be seen golden lilies floating as if in water.

"Turn your heart, my child," spoke the apparition in a voice that was rueful and heavy with disapproval. "Out of the path which you have taken to corrupt my gift of love."

Crixus said nothing, for he was already aware that he was wholly within the power of this being. But a few moments ago, her very presence would have devoured him like a consuming fire. With a dead certainty, he knew that this could happen at any moment and, therefore, every word was robbed. Any word of mockery and ridicule were forgotten and he regretted his strike against her shrine in the Temple of the Divines.

"Do not set forsake that other gift," she spoke, her voice calmer but no less rueful. "The gift of friendship, which I have sent to you without fail, only to be rejected, set at naught and misused in your eyes."

Even her words made Crixus quake as much as her presence did. Everything she said was true: even before he had defiled her shrine, love was to him a tool to alleviate his own pain and friendship went only so far as he could use those he called 'friends.' He recalled how he had ordered Gorak, his own comrade and fellow survivor of the 9th Legion, not to argue with him. His own desires had always been in front of everything and now he saw that it was true and that he had no excuse.

He shut his eyes, hoping that this was all a bad dream that would go away the moment he opened his eyes. But, beneath his sealed eyelids, the glow of the light could still be seen. Then suddenly the light and the heat faded, and there was darkness and cold. Crixus' eyes crept open and all he saw was the dark interior of the Chapel of Dibella in the city of Anvil. With a sigh of relief, he leaned against the stone wall and went to sleep, eager to forget all he had just witnessed.

When morning finally came, Crixus was as sore as he had been in all of his time in Skyrim. He noticed also that Lethia was awake and sitting up, with her back to the stone wall, and gazing at everything her glistening blue eyes could take in. The darkness had passed and she was glad to see the world of light, even if she did not behave grateful and glad outwardly.

"Good morning," she greeted, upon seeing Crixus awake.

"Why should you care?" Crixus retorted. "You think I'm a slave."

"It's still a good morning, is it not?" she asked.

Crixus had not seen the day outside of the chapel, so he merely shrugged. "It's a day, like any other."

"Not for me," she replied. "Every day the sun rises...it's like seeing the world reborn every day. For someone who has lived her entire life in darkness, the rising of the new day is cause to wish anyone, mer or slave, a good morning."

"If you say so," Crixus groaned.

"Now, then," she asked. "Shall we go searching for your friend?"

"Which friend?" Crixus evasively queried. "I have no friends."

"The one you were looking for in the Count's Arms?" she replied. "I know where you can find him."

"Is that right?" Crixus asked. "And how do you know this?"

"The patrons at the Flowing Bowl were less cautious about who listened to their conversations," she stated. "They must think that, with so many slaves talking, no one can hear them. But I am a creature of the darkness, and I lived on my ears when my eyes failed for want of the light."

"And what did you hear?" Crixus replied.

"I heard you speaking to your servant in the Count's Arms," Lethia grinned. "Telling him to pay close attention to anyone who would mention the name Cassius Urtius in conversation. Ironic that you hate to be called a slave, yet you have nothing against owning slaves."

"Petruvius is different," Crixus explained. "He's not a slave, he's...a squire. Didn't your Snow Elven people have Knight-Paladins or something?"

"It's been so long, I cannot remember a life beyond the darkness," she replied glumly, a shudder visible upon her pale blue arms.

"I'm sorry," Crixus uttered, surprised once more at his empathy. "I didn't mean to bring that up again. Go on and tell me what else you heard."

"While at the Flowing Bowl," she continued. "I heard the name Cassius Urtius mentioned, but thought nothing of it until you spoke those words to your...squire."

"What do you know about him?" Crixus asked.

"What I heard," Lethia began. "Were details regarding a meeting that was to occur the night after next, being Turdas, the 3rd of Heartfire. It was to be held in the private quarters in the Count's Arms at eleven o'clock. No details greater than this can I give, for nothing else was said about the matter."

"That should be enough," Crixus nodded, turning to himself to make calculations on his hands. As far as he reckoned, it had been the first of Heartfire when he arrived at Anvil Harbor and was taken into the castle of the Countess, then a day more when he and Petruvius were sent scouting the streets, looking for Signius and Urtius. Today was the 3rd, and the meeting was to take place tonight at the Count's Arms.

"Alright," Crixus said at last. "The gates will be closed tonight, and we won't be able to get back into the castle if we go in search of Urtius, which I must do." He turned to Lethia. "Do you remember how I was brought into the castle?"

"By boat," she replied. "From the docks in the harbor."

"Good," Crixus nodded. "I'll get us a boat ready for our return to the castle tonight, while you purchase some gear. I'll need more rope, as I left mine behind in Skyrim." He paused, for he was about to say where, but he didn't. Even though Lethia probably knew as much about the Empire and the conflict with the Dominion and the Nord rebels as Serana did, he was not in Skyrim anymore. There were more people here in Cyrodiil who might be in the know about what happened on the 31st of Frostfall last year and any word he might let slip that incriminated himself...

"Here," he murmured, removing his coin purse and pulling out a few gold coins. "Fifty drakes. That should be enough for the rope. Bring any extra back with you."

"You're trusting me with money?" she asked.

"I could go back for Petruvius," Crixus stated. "But explaining my disappearance would be...problematic. For the present, you will have to do. Besides, your knowledge will be useful for the next part of my plan: finding Urtius."

"But it will not be until night," Lethia replied.

"Yes, I know," Crixus groaned. "But for the moment, I need to find out about Urtius. Leave my squire to me. Once you have the rope, meet me at the Count's Arms: we'll stay there more or less for the rest of the day. Once night comes, we'll find our friend Cassius Urtius and see what he's up to, then make our way back into the castle."

"You seem to be leaving much to chance," said Lethia. "The castle will be closed tonight, as it was the first night."

"Leave that to me," Crixus repeated.

* * *

From the Chapel, Crixus made his way towards the gates of the castle. But what he found made him slink back into the shadows instinctively. The outer gates were open but, just beyond the bridge, he saw the inner gate was closing and armored guards were scurrying across the bridge. Swiftly he made his way through the alleys back to where he had found Lethia last night. By day it was easier to find a path, even through the refugees and vagabonds that cluttered the back alleyways: it was clear that Selvia had indeed invited refugees from the eastern counties into Anvil. But he had no time to feel good for his cousin, not yet at least.

From the alleys, he went through the crowds in the streets all the way to the docks. He found an Bosmer fisherman who was willing to leave his boat out on the docks that night as long as Crixus returned it to his fishing shop: another fifty septims secured this little arrangement. Crixus then made his way to the Count's Arms, where he waited for Lethia to arrive. She seemed to be taking her time, for the minutes passed swiftly by and there was no sign of her arrival. Eventually, he found a group of some high end mercenaries who were in from a big, lucrative job, feeling generous and let him join their tab. In exchange, they asked Crixus if he had been to Skyrim and knew what was going on there. Crixus shared what little he knew, which seemed to sate their curiosity.

"One almost thinks," a Khajiit mercenary stated. "That the rewards outweigh the risks. Imagine: a whole province where one does not need to belong to any guild to do what we do, where no laws bind them to one thing and not to another."

"It's lawlessness, I say," a Breton spell-sword, part of that company, replied. "The Fighters Guild won't stand for it. They _don't_ stand for it. In fact, I've heard that they're redoubling their efforts to bring the Guild to Skyrim, what with the death of the leader of the barbarians mercenary family, or whatever they call it!"

"The Companions," Crixus stated. Then suddenly his ears perked up again and he turned to the Breton. "Did you say the leader of the Companions is dead?"

"Yeah, happened last year," the Breton replied. "But there was something else going on there recently, some kind of division or schism. Maybe now is the right chance for Master Oreyn to press his advantage to drive the barbarian mercenary cult out of Skyrim and bring some civilized work there!"

Crixus said nothing. For a moment, he feared that Eirik had already been slain and not by his hand. But he had been there when the 'other' leader, or Harbinger, had fallen. He also knew that the Companions were indeed divided, but it was certainly new to him that the Fighters Guild were actively trying to force their way into Skyrim. He grinned inside, knowing that this would be one of many first steps in civilizing the Nords of Skyrim and erasing their heathen traditions.

"What about the Guild?" Crixus asked. "Is there anyone a man should ask about joining them?"

"Master Oreyn in Chorrol," said the Breton. "Or the local chapter would be easier."

"Hmm," Crixus nodded aloud. "So, heard of anything else?"

"Aye," another mercenary, a Nord, replied from over the top of his cup. "Word is that someone has been snooping around the taverns frequented by the Fighters Guild in Chorrol, asking questions."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "And who is this someone, if I may ask?"

"A frail milk-drinker," the Nord stated. "Never heard his name, but rumor has it that he's looking for work, secret type of work."

"Illegal work, more like," an Imperial mercenary of their group interjected. "We may be mercenaries, but we follow the rules of the Guild. This ain't Skyrim where we can just be free to do as we will."

"A pity," the Nord groaned, then drained his cup and slammed it dramatically upon the table. "Let's have a song, then, shall we?"

"Not again, Hafthor!" groaned the Khajiit.

"I miss the bards of my home!" the Nord, Hafthor, replied. "Would have gone to the Bard's College meself, but mine was the way of the warrior."

"Heh," the Imperial stated. "We should call you Hafthor the Song-Bird!"

"Shor's balls, don't you have any minstrels in Cyrodiil?" demanded Hafthor.

"There are minstrels in High Rock," the Breton stated. "But, from what I've seen, only rich people have minstrels here in Cyrodiil."

"Is this not the Count's Arms?" asked Hafthor. "Gods, I see the way the others stare at us, as if we don't belong here none."

"Come now," the Khajiit said to the Imperial and the Breton. "One song, at least to shut up this snow-back."

"Watch it, cat," grumbled Hafthor, who was easily head and shoulders above the Khajiit.

"Here's one," the Imperial spoke up. "Heard it in the Hero's Welcome in Kvatch. It's a drinking song."

"Good!" Hafthor cheered.

The Imperial then began to sing a few bars of the song in a voice that was definitely not one accustomed to singing. Eventually the five of them were humming along and Hafthor pounded his fist on the table in time to the song. The words only the Imperial knew, but eventually, once they got to the "drinking" part, they were all more or less chanting along.

_When we sit in the tavern_  
_We care not what's around us_  
_We set about for drinking_  
_For to make our joys boundless_

_Once for the living_  
_Two times for the dead_  
_Three for those in prison_  
_And four for the whores in our beds_

_Five for those on journey_  
_And six for the Legions a-warrin'_  
_Seven for the merry ol' chantry_  
_Eight for the brawlers brawlin'_

After they hit the verse 'Eight for the brawlers...', they all took a drink and then started again, singing until everyone more or less knew the song. Whenever someone missed words, they would stop, the one who messed up would take a drink, and then they would all start again, only all drinking after the song was finished. After eight rounds of the song, the Khajiit was swaying and muttering more in Khajiiti than the common tongue, the Breton's face was lying on the table top and only the two Imperials and the Nord were still holding themselves.

It was at this time that Crixus saw Lethia's hooded form walk into the door of the Count's Arms. He turned towards her and gestured with his head that she should come towards the table. She did and, after draining his mug, Crixus placed his right arm - or at least tried to place - around the massive shoulders of Hafthor who was easily head and shoulders above him (though it made him feel better inside to know that this massive man, who was taller even than Torgrim, would definitely have towered over both Eirik and Ulfric Stormcloak).

"My apologies," Crixus said. "I must leave you now."

"You certainly can hold your liquor, friend," the Nord chuckled. "May you die with a sword in your hand." He raised his cup to his lips to drink, saw that it was empty, then called for more as Crixus turned to Lethia.

"Chatting it up with the Nord slaves, are we?" she said from beneath her hood, low enough that Hafthor did not hear her.

Crixus stepped aside, getting as close to the door as he could and gesturing for Lethia to follow him: putting a hand on her might cause a scene, which he wished greatly to avoid. Once they were outside, he held up a coin purse which his right hand had been concealing.

"Where did you get that?" she asked.

"From the Nord slave back there," Crixus replied.

"Was that wise?" she asked. "He's larger even than the other one."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Crixus replied with a grin. "We'll be far and away by the time he realizes it's gone. And whose word will the guards believe? That of a Nord or the Countess' cousin?"

"You're not merely kind, you're clever as well," Lethia stated. "Cruelly clever, indeed. You sound like a mer."

Crixus made no reply as he went on his way as far from the Count's Arm as he could. In his mind, he was going over what to do for the next few hours as Lethia, still hooded, followed after him. He stopped at last in front of the Synod office, where Lethia caught up with him and followed him as he stepped into the alley by the office.

"So, then?" she asked. "What will you do?"

"I've secured us a boat," he stated. "But what about you? Did you get what I asked for?" Lethia's pale blue hands held forth a coil of rope she said was a hundred feet long which she had purchased from one of the few general stores in the city that were not owned by the Merchants Guild.

"I could not do business with the Guild," she explained. "They demanded some kind of amulet to show that I was with them, which I had not."

"We'll deal with that later," Crixus said. "For now, we have what we need. Let's just find some place to lay low until nightfall."

"And the Count's Arms is out of the question," Lethia asked. "Because you stole that slave's purse?"

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing," Crixus replied. "The way I see it, the Nords owe everyone reparations for all the shite they've put us through over the centuries, _and_ for what they're continuing to put us through this very day. That giant oaf still owes me everything he has, including his life, before I would even think about considering myself square with him."

"And when will it end?" she asked. "When all the Nord slaves are dead and all their debts are paid? Will it end for you then?"

At this Crixus was brought to a stand-still. He had never considered the possibility of eradicating all of the Nords. There seemed to be too many of them and they bred like vermin, five or seven to a couple. But if he became Emperor, he would have the power to make sure that they were punished according to what they deserved. And then what? Would it truly end as Lethia had assumed, with all the Nords dead? But it couldn't end: it wasn't just Nords he was killing, or the Grey Spirit by proxy. It was everyone and everything that had ever harmed and wronged him: it was Sedris Ulver, his 'goddess', the Dominion, the Emperor. Anyone and anything he could kill and the high of power, of control, of being able to make life end - of being a god in his own right - would still be there.

"No," he answered at last, turning away from Lethia. "It won't end there. Not while there are still people to kill." He turned back to the Snow Elf. "But that doesn't matter. I'd rather not face the guards again: it would be too...uncomfortable to explain my disappearance the night before."

"Why is that?" she asked. "Why can you not tell them the truth, that you were in the Chapel of Dibella with me?"

"Can you not listen to what you're saying?" Crixus asked. "My aunt, or whatever the fuck she is, is more prudish than Eirik. I'd rather not incur her disapproval by telling her that I was in the chapel of the goddess of tits and fucking all night with a woman. And you're a Snow Elf, they're supposed to have disappeared from off the face of Nirn! It would cause a scandal, and I hate being the center of attention."

"I see," she replied knowingly. "You lie to avoid attention."

"I lie to learn the truth," Crixus paradoxically replied. "And the truth I wish to know awaits us when the sun goes down. Now, let's go somewhere else, before we're spotted."

* * *

The Flowing Bowl offered a less conspicuous venue for the two to hide from the guards. From the moment they entered, the atmosphere was clearly different from the Count's Arms. The lights were dim and the clientele poorer and rowdier. Here there seemed to be brawls erupting between the drunk patrons once every five minutes, many loud voices crying for beer or sloshing through renditions of old drinking songs with crude words replacing the usual ones, and more than a few shady characters clinging to the corner tables. The perfect place for common villains to sell their lives to any with coin, in exchange for drink and women.

Here the two fugitives were able to blend in with the crowds and disappear for hours on end. Crixus ordered food for them and he watched as Lethia devoured what was on her plate with her bare hands. Without making any comments about Nords, he showed her how to use utensils, which she took to very slowly and clumsily at first. To keep his mind from her clumsy behavior, Crixus focused instead on the table. The proprietress had told him that the Flowing Bowl was an ancient establishment, one that the people of Anvil had enjoyed for over two hundred years, and that the tables, walls and beams of the inn had great history of their own. So it was that he looked about for some kind of historical sign or other. He chuckled when he saw a star and the name 'Asteria' carved into the wall just below the table where they sat.

But as the hours went on, they ate and drank and listened to all that went on around them. Once again Crixus heard about the one Hafthor had mentioned: a slight man asking around the pubs in the Nibenay about people interested in 'private work' that, many guessed, was more or less illegal. Certainly, he decided, that this person must have connections to the Thieves Guild. After all, the 'better' half of Crixus' mind reasoned, it was foolish to think that the entire Thieves Guild consisted of only those he had met in Skyrim. That was an unorganized mob of thugs, not a trans-provincial group of honorable professional thieves. Furthermore, that everything going on in Tamriel was happening only in Skyrim was repulsive to Crixus' mind: surely there were more interesting places for interesting things to be happening than the ass end of nowhere, the land of goat-fuckers and Talos-worshipers.

When at last the bell tolled the hour of eight, Crixus and Lethia decided to leave the Flowing Bowl and make their way to the Count's Arms. They decided to go early in order that their arrival not be marked, then sound out where the meeting would be taking place and listen in from there. The Count's Arms was not The Flowing Bowl, and any suspicious behavior would be seen and noted. So it was that they arrived a little less than two hours early, purchased some drinks and food for a light dinner and melded into the corners. They ate in peace for, as Crixus was glad to see, the group of Fighters Guild mercenaries he had encountered before were nowhere to be found.

As the hour of nine ticked on, the ebb and flow of patrons waxed and waned. Some remained while those who were still lucid enough to walk home left. However, both Crixus and Lethia began to notice a few nervous glances made towards a door in the southwestern corner of the inn's common room. It was not until the hour was almost spent and the hour of ten was nigh at hand that more people began to pour into the tavern, requesting the short, fat, bald proprietor for use of the private room. This was Crixus' queue. His eyes watched the door to the private room, the one on the southwestern corner of the building, as he and Lethia made their way to the proprietor.

"I would like to purchase a room on the upper level," Crixus muttered, offering a few septims to the short innkeeper.

"Sure thing, stranger," he replied, handing him a key from the ring upon his belt. "I'll have one of the servants show you the way."

A young boy of fifteen was then called forth by the innkeeper and told to lead Crixus to his room. He took them upstairs and showed them to a room which, after a little inspection, Crixus found to be just above the private room down below. Once the boy had finished, Crixus shut the door behind him and Lethia, then lay down on the floor and saw, to his dismay, that the floors here were like the floors of the Blue Palace in Solitude: that is to say made of stone tiles rather than wooden beams.

"Damn!" Crixus groaned. "Spent twenty drakes on nothing."

"What shall we do, then?" Lethia asked.

"You," Crixus said, turning to her. "You can see into the future, right? Well, why can't you see down there?"

"Do not mock me, slave," Lethia retorted defensively. "I know not from where comes my gift of prophecy, nor can I control it."

"Fucking convenient," Crixus groaned. Outside, he could hear the bell from the Chapel of Dibella toll the hour of ten. Upset over being stumped, he walked over to Lethia and, despite her protests and struggles, removed her hood.

"You stay here," he said as he wrapped it around his body. "I'll be right back. You can b*tch me out then."

Without another word, he stole out of the room and hastily jogged down the stone steps to the common room. He then joined the line of those going into the private room. At the door, there stood one with a hood and his hand open to accept a charge of money. Crixus saw many of them place whole bags worth of money into his hands or even a few septims. He fished out thirty septims and placed them in the man's hand and was allowed to enter the room.

Inside, the private room was even more exclusive than the common room. The tables, floors and walls seemed even more immaculate than the latter, there were beautiful tapestries hung upon the walls, the finest food and drink at the table and, to Crixus' delight, the kind of harlots reserved for kings, counts and lords. At the far end of this great hall there was erected a wooden stage, upon which there stood a man of average height with receding grey hair. He wore a grey doublet with no cloak and, surprisingly enough, traveling pants instead of tights and boots upon his feet. He had the accoutrements of one recently come in from a long journey. He did, however, bear a golden ring with a ruby set into it on his right hand, which shone in the light of the candlestick lamps upon the wall-scones and the tables. When at last the clock struck eleven, the man gave a gesture with his hand to the one at the door and the doors were closed upon them; he then addressed those seated at the tables.

"Friends, brothers," he greeted. "I have summoned you all here, at this auspicious hour, because the time is short. For years I have spoken of the day that we shall have our place as the Count of Anvil, and that your contributions to our efforts will return to you eight-fold. I have called you here to tell you that the day is now."

There was some scattered applause after this speech; almost strained, Crixus mused. At last he saw a familiar face stand up and address the speaker.

"Count Urtius," the basso voice of Falco Signius stated. "As you well know, my organization is not in the habit of rewarding false or foolish promises from its clients. But what you are proposing here is suicidal!"

"On the contrary, Lord Mayor," Urtius replied. "As you yourself know, the pretender Selvia Maro is not very popular among the other counts, especially the Colovian counts. Her...unnatural affections and uncultured manners have not gone unnoticed by the pure members of the House of Nobles."

"And you are of the belief that they will join in our cause, Count?" Signius asked. He scoffed. "Count Hassildor is a recluse, like all of his family and Count Romulus would find working with you a conflict of interest once he learns that my organization is party to your little insurrection. Count Fraseric may be persuaded to join us, but at the very best, Count Edvald would only be able to send token aid to our cause."

"It is true, Lord Mayor, that Selvia the Pretender is infamous among the House of Nobles," Urtius stated. "Were to the Eight that all of the new wealth were as infamous. Nevertheless, it was not the House of Nobles to whom I was referring. There are other forces, gentlemen, stronger forces than the House of Nobles. I have spoken to them and they are willing to lend their aid to our cause."

"I believe I speak for all of us," Signius stated. "When I say that the only aid you have offered us from these 'stronger forces' are words. Men, weapons, money to hire mercenaries, that I would call aid."

"Then rest assured, Lord Mayor," said Urtius. "That we will have men, weapons and more money than even your miserly mind could conceive of when we strike. I have their personal assurances that all will be well with us."

"And would you, perhaps, give _us_ some measure of assurance?" Signius asked. "If we are to risk all in your war against Countess Maro, we will need more than words to go on."

"What more assurances do you need?" Urtius asked, leaving off Signius' honorific. "Have I not evaded capture at the hands of Selvia the Pretender and her cronies all these years? Have I not succeeded in keeping her people unhappy by means of the overwhelming number of beggars, so that the people will see what you have all seen - that the Pretender is an incompetent leader and administrator?"

"Save your rhetoric for the people, Count," Signius replied. "We, all of us, are men of means. We want to know that our investment in your cause has not been in vain."

"I ask you, Lord Mayor, have your investments with me been in vain?" Urtius asked. "I have given you and your organization plenty of good business over the years, while all your competitors have been driven out of business. In what way have I failed to live up to any of my bargains?" A low murmur echoed through those seated here, which Crixus saw made Urtius grin.

"And now I ask you all," he continued, pressing his point forward. "How have you fared under Selvia the Pretender? I am an honest man, whereas she is a two-faced woman who gives alms in public, that her charity might be seen and the people sympathize with her, while behind closed doors she makes exception for herself and her extended family of miscreants and traitors. It is true that, recently, her nephew was involved a failed attempt to assassinate our beloved and divine Emperor: is this the kind of person you want ruling over you? One who places family above the needs of good people such as yourselves, who conceals treachery?"

Loud cries of disapproval arose from the people gathered here. Crixus saw Signius take a seat, a disgruntled look on his face.

"There are some who say that I care only for the wealthy," Urtius began. "That my rule will only raise those of true wealth. And while it is true that I believe in wealth, I also believe in the people of Anvil." He cast his gaze on the disgruntled Signius. "Has not the greedy pretender prevented the work of the Merchants Guild in our fair city? And who suffers the most thereby? The people of Anvil, that's who, the people! Without regulations, the businesses of this city, owing allegiance to no one but the pretender, have the people of this city in a vice-grip, strangling their hard-earned septims out of their pockets!" There were noticeably fewer cries of disapproval after this.

"When I am Count of Anvil, as is my right," Urtius continued. "I will see to it that the first interests served are those of the people of Anvil, not of drunk relations who do nothing but make the name and seat of the Count to stink in the nostrils of all of Cyrodiil! I will elevate the seat of the Count and everyone who serves me faithfully, each man according to his effort and need, and not spend my time pandering to a worthless family who bring nothing but shame to themselves and to our city!"

Over the next few minutes, Crixus noted that Urtius continued on this mud-slinging tirade. He kept his composure, certainly, and only rose his voice and clenched fist to drive a point home, but he seemed to have no greater argument in his arsenal than merely insults and slander. As is customary for those who see their own faults in others and shy away from them like the plague, Crixus found Urtius' arguments at best flawed and at worst juvenile. That no one was, apparently, mocking him was a point of great consideration.

Then suddenly, Crixus got his wish.

"What more have you to say beyond mere insults?" one asked.

At this, Crixus saw Urtius chuckle, then make his reply.

"I do have this to say, my friend," he stated. "That if you have no intention of listening to my words, then you should not have come here."

"I wanted to hear what you had to say," said the one who protested. "And I feel as though there is something more, but I don't..."

"You have thrown in your lot with the pretender," Urtius sighed. "And you have no place among us." At this, those around the man hissed and booed him until he sat down. Crixus watched as Urtius gestured to the man who had collected money and called him forward. He then turned to the others.

"Expect to hear from me within three days time," he said. "Afterwards, those who are not counted among us will be counted among our enemies."

At this, Urtius made his way towards the door, throwing his hood over his head. Crixus, meanwhile, kept his keen eyes on him and decided to follow him. Lethia would, doubtless, not approve, but then again he was in hot water with her nonetheless. As soon as he passed out of the private room, Crixus watched him leave the Count's Arms. It was dark in the streets and the silhouette of Cassius Urtius was vague in the shadows, but Crixus' keen eyes kept him on the trail. He followed at a safe distance, clinging to the shadows periodically so that he would not be spotted if Urtius should suddenly look back over his shoulders.

Urtius passed through the gates at the northern end of town, which Crixus found were surprisingly vacant of guards. Swiftly he followed after him to the old Horse Whisperer Stables out in front of the gates. Here Urtius ducked to the left and Crixus followed after him, but not too far. He could see the light of torches coming from the other side of the stables and decided it would be best to stay put. With his back to the side wall of the stables, he listened to what happened on the other side. He could hear two distinct voices: one was the voice of Cassius Urtius, who sounded less confident than he had appeared in the private room. The other voice was aristocratic, sneering and condescending; the voice of an Altmer.

"How did it go?" the Altmer demanded.

"I gave them a date," Urtius replied. "Three days from now, Sundas the 6th."

"You certainly have been quite a burden on us, Urtius," the Altmer sneered. "With all of your demands and special requests. I'm not sure my superiors will agree to this latest one."

"Isn't this what we had agreed on, though?" Urtius asked, his voice quivering in worry. "Ridding Anvil of the Maro family?"

"That's why we've allowed you to go undetected for so long," said the Altmer. "Why we've hid you from the Countess' guards, why all of your other adversaries have conveniently...disappeared."

"Then can I count on your support this time?" Urtius asked.

"Don't think that you can order the Thalmor around, Urtius," the Altmer dismissed. "We have much more important matters on our hands than the petty ambitions of one human. Need I remind you that crossing us can be dangerous? We destroyed the Valga family without harming a hair on the heads of any of their members, we own Cyrodiil and Skyrim."

"You don't have to remind me," Urtius added in a not-too-subtle aside.

"Perhaps we _do_, seeing as how you've grown so brazen in your demands," the Altmer threatened. "It would, after all, be unfortunate should someone with ties to the Countess learn of your hiding place."

"Y-You wouldn't dare!" Urtius blurted out, fear in his voice. "We had a deal!"

"And as long as you uphold your end of the bargain," said the Altmer. "There won't be anything to worry about. Now why don't you go back to your little cave and leave everything to us?"

"Wh-What about our little pestulent fellow?" Urtius stammered. "He dared to..."

"Oh, don't worry about him," said the Altmer. "My organization is very adept at making people disappear without a trace. This discussion is now over."

Crixus quickly crept into the stables to avoid Urtius' return approach. Once he was inside, he huddled at the bottom, keeping his head down. Inside he was perplexed at what he heard: Thalmor in Cyrodiil? And in Anvil of all places? How was this possible? Though he had seen mountains of evidence to the contrary in Skyrim, Crixus refused to believe that their presence in the Empire was for any reason other than the Nords obstinate worship of Talos. Why were they in Cyrodiil? _How_ could they be in Cyrodiil?

_There _must_ be a reasonable explanation,_ Crixus thought. _I'll have to talk to the Countess about it._

* * *

**(AN: The plot thickens and Crixus is forced once again to accept an inconvenient truth: that the Thalmor are more involved than he wants to believe.)**

**(As far as the activities of the Divines in Mundus, it's kind of mind-boggling, the idea that they can be killed by themselves [ie. Akatosh eating the world and them himself as shown in Satakal and Alduin], and that, because they put a part of their spirit into creating the world, they cannot manifest physically. The latter part is even more bogus since at least one _did_ manifest physically in _Morrowind_. So far i have had the Divines appear in dreams or visions [Dibella "convinced" Lydia to sleep with Eirik in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and Mara appeared as Crixus' mother in _The Dragon of the South_], but as more or less physical beings. I tried to be somewhat vague on Dibella's depiction, since she is the goddess of beauty and most people have a different idea of what beauty is. For me, Dibella would look like the Norse goddess Freyja [blond, fair-skin, good-sized "tracts of land"]: i wonder what your vision of Dibella would be. Leave your thoughts in the reviews)**


	7. Request of a Personal Nature

**(AN: When i first set out with this story, i was making an epic high fantasy story along the lines of _Conan the Barbarian_. By the time i reached _The Dragon and the Bear_, i had more or less accepted the popular opinion that the Stormcloaks were racist and Eirik had to accept that and decide where to go from there. But now i've realized that most of the "racism" was just propaganda that everyone - especially my brother - bought without questioning it. Hell, _i_ never questioned _The Bear of Markarth_ until i read the Stormcloak Bible. But as we will be seeing Placators more in Cyrodiil, the truth will definitely be appearing. The question is whether Crixus will accept the truth or run back into his comfortable little zone of obstinate ignorance?)**

**(Also Urtius' comments about Selvia's "unnatural affections" refer to the fact that, aside from being single [he tells everyone she's gay and therefore won't supply Anvil with an heir], she is not your typical Colovian noble in that she's not obsessed with Japanese [-cough- i mean Akaviri] relics and culture. It's part of my biting back against the heavy Japanophilia rampant in the _Elder Scrolls_ [started by Kirkbride who idolized everything eastern, as we saw in _Morrowind_]. Just because it a] came from the east or b] was held by the elves/Dwemer/Japanese/Akaviri does not make it intrinsically superior to anything established from the north, south or west.)  
**

**(Oh, and where _do _you see me taking Lethia, _Weetos_? I'd like to see what your idea would be. Maybe it's spot on, maybe it missed the mark altogether.)  
**

* * *

**Request of a Personal Nature**

As soon as Crixus believed he was safe to leave, he darted back into the city and made his way back to the Count's Arms. Up the stairs and into the room he went, where Lethia was none too happy about seeing him or having him rip off her cloak. She slapped him around a bit, but after the second strike, Crixus seized her hand and told her everything he had experienced.

"And just who are the Thalmor?" she asked. "I remember you talking about them when you were besieging Solitude."

"The leadership of the Aldmeri Dominion," Crixus stated. "Their agents were in Skyrim to keep the White-Gold Concordant upheld by persecuting the worshipers of Talos."

"And who or what is Talos?" Lethia asked.

"A Nord born in High Rock," Crixus stated. "A murderer, back-stabbing oath-breaker, traitor and warmonger...who became deified when he died."

Lethia scoffed. "A human god! Don't be ridiculous, your kind are not meant for starlight. It is a gift of mer-kind, and _only_ for mer-kind."

"Well, in addition to that," Crixus stated. "He wasn't a good person. If anyone should be deified, it should be someone with the qualities that one expects a god to have."

"Capriciousness?" Lethia asked. "Complete apathy for anyone but themselves? Disregard for life? This Talos certainly seems to have those qualities."

"That's not what I mean and you know it!" Crixus retorted.

"Why?" Lethia asked, a cheeky grin on her face. "I've heard what you say in your sleep, raging against the gods that made you. Do you hold a different standard for others and not for yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus stated. "You know nothing, Lethia. You have no place to lecture _me_ on what I do or who I do or do not believe in."

"And whose place is it?" she asked. "The white slave who you tried to kill?"

"Shut up, or I swear I'll slap the b*tch right out of you," Crixus threatened.

"Violence, the way of the slave races," she stated. "How are you any different to the white Nords?" With that, Crixus suddenly punched Lethia in the face, sending her crumbling to the floor, her hands over her face.

"_I_ saved your ungrateful life, b*tch!" Crixus shouted, an accusatory finger pointed down at Lethia's fallen form. "If it weren't for _me_, the Grey Spirit would have killed you! So don't you _ever_ fucking liken _me_ to those barbaric little shites again! Do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me?" Lethia looked up at him with shock in her blue eyes. Suddenly a horrific image passed over Crixus' eyes and Lethia became a six year old Colovian boy with a mop of black hair and his hand, pointing down at her angrily, became a thin, grey-blue appendage.

"No!" Crixus shouted, drawing his hand back in fright. "No, I'm not like her! I'm a good man, I've always been!"

They did not speak to each other that night, and Lethia slept on the floor, curled up in a ball in the corner while Crixus fell asleep on the bed. He did not sleep long, for his night was filled with images of a place with men in mage robes. He snapped awake, realizing that he had completely forgotten the plan. Waking Lethia, he gave her back her robe and took the rope, then stole out of the Count's Arms, making for the docks. They had to return to the castle before dawn.

It was two in the morning when they arrived at the docks and rowed the little boat over to the isle upon which the castle stood. Then, with the rope, Crixus scaled the castle walls. It was dark and very late and the guard had dozed off momentarily on his watch. For a moment Crixus considered killing him: he had failed his duty, he deserved to die. But he had Lethia in tow and things would get complicated, especially when his new family learned that there were dead guards, so Crixus went on his way back down the tower and went in search of his room. This took longer than he thought, for as soon as he was within the walls, he had to find where his room was. That took at least another hour and by the time he found it, both of them were exhausted. Rather than wake Petruvius up at such a late hour, Crixus picked the lock and quietly crept into the room, sealing it quietly behind once Lethia had entered. Once inside, he gave Lethia the bed while he stayed awake. The dream he had seen was still on his mind and he wasn't feeling interested in going to bed.

* * *

When dawn finally arrived, Crixus was standing over Petruvius, watching him sleep. As he had not had a good lark in a while - whether killing a Nord or bedding a woman - Crixus wanted to have a little fun with his squire. Taking the Nightingale Blade in his hand and kicking Petruvius awake, he put the sword to his squire's neck, whose eyes swelled open when he saw the sword at his neck.

"You failed your orders, soldier," Crixus grumbled, deepening his voice and trying to keep his Colovian drawl as hidden as possible. "Last night, someone broke into this room and stole your master away. Your life is forfeit for this failure."

"I d-don't know how my master disappeared," Petruvius stammered. "But I swear, by all the gods, that I _never_ failed in my watch!"

Crixus chuckled as he removed the point from his squire's neck, assuming his natural voice. "You should have seen the look on your face, Petruvius. I thought you'd almost shite your pants."

"Sir!" Petruvius exclaimed. "B-By all the gods, where have you been? The Countess was worried sick about you, she almost had me arrested for losing you!"

"I was indisposed," Crixus stated. "But now I'm back, and I have to speak to the Countess. For now, however, redeem your failure to keep me out last night by keeping watch over this one." He pointed to Lethia, asleep in the bed. "No matter what she says, what she calls you or how much she demands it, you don't let her out of this room. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Crixus grinned as he tossed the sword back onto his pile of things, then made his way out the door to look for the Countess. His first decision was to seek out the throne room, which he had much better luck finding than his own room in the dead of the night. As he entered the throne room, which had a few petitioners there, he saw the Countess speaking to someone by the throne. Crixus' entrance was announced and he saw the person speaking to the Countess turn towards him: it was Livia Maro, Severus' wife who hated him. With a scowl upon her face, she picked up her skirts and left the throne room in a huff. A few minutes later, the Redguard steward Casimir approached Crixus.

"Her Highness is busy hearing petitions this morning," he said. "Any other requests you have can go through me."

"Actually this is something I should be telling her alone," Crixus stated. "It's about...Urtius."

The Redguard nodded knowingly. "I'll see if I can give you a private audience."

Casimir the Redguard made his way to the Countess and muttered into her ear. She nodded, then gestured to the people and Casimir nodded. Selvia then rose up from her throne and gestured for Crixus to approach. He followed her into a side room, which she closed behind them.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "I had half the guard searching all through the town and the castle all day yesterday! We thought you'd been kidnapped!"

"I was on your business," Crixus replied. "I sought out Cassius Urtius, as you instructed."

"So Casimir told me," Selvia nodded. "And what have you learned?"

"Something about a cave," Crixus stated. "A place where he might be hiding. Do you know what this could be about?"

"There are a few caves in this region," Selvia replied. "There's the old Smoke Hole cave north of Gweden Farm, where we used to play as children, the Brittlerock cave on the border of county Kvatch, Bleak Mine near Sadryn Drad's estate and the Hrota cave north of Whitmond Farm just north of the city. Any one of those could be this cave you speak of."

"Do I have your permission to search for him, then?" Crixus asked. "He's planning something on the 6th of this month, possibly to usurp your throne."

"Only that, eh?" she asked. "That's not exactly news to me, my dear nephew. Cassius was Count Urtius' illegitimate son, and his father decided to make him his heir, though he had no true-born son. The promotion was not recognized and, because his true-born daughter had married my grandfather, we were part of the family. As your mother died young, the title of Count passed to my father and his children: but since Severus, my brother, chose to join the Penitus Oculatus, he forsook all titles and claims, according to his vows, and the titles passed to me."

"Why didn't it pass to Uncle Surius?" Crixus asked.

"The title would have passed down to him," she replied. "Had Gentonius died with no children. But Count Urtius was upset that his throne passed out of his grasp and raised his bastard son to hate us, telling him that we stole the throne from him. So far he's only just been a rabble-rouser, stirring up trouble here and there. He's never had any great power, none to be anything greater than a nuisance to my family."

"Not this time," Crixus sighed. As much as it pained him to admit it, he would be betraying family once again by hiding this information from his aunt. "I have it on good authority that he has greater help, help though that would put the throne of Anvil in his hands."

"What help could possibly give him such power?" Selvia asked. "The Count of Kvatch is too busy knocking horns with the Merchants Guild to be bothered with things beyond his borders."

"Someone bigger than the Count of Kvatch," Crixus sighed. "Surius mentioned them at dinner two nights ago. The people from the Imperial City whom no one crosses."

Selvia's face blanched. "Oh, Divines save us! Surely you don't mean the...the Thalmor?"

"Yes," Crixus began, then did a double-take. "You-You know of them?"

She sighed. "They have an embassy in the Imperial City and their agents have dealings with the Synod. As Uncle Surius said, no one crosses them."

"I encountered them in Skyrim," Crixus stated. "They were there to keep the ignorant Nords from worshiping Talos, as according to the White-Gold Concordant. Why they would be here is beyond me."

"They have more sinister aims here in Cyrodiil," Selvia replied, her voice rising in anger. "They are the leading class of the Aldmeri Dominion, the ones who invaded the Empire and killed our people!" She was practically livid with these words. "I may be forced to have the Synod in my city, but I refuse to deal with them! If Urtius is in league with them, he's as good as a traitor and must be stopped!"

"I-I'm sorry," Crixus stammered. "I didn't mean to anger you."

"No, it wasn't you," Selvia sighed. "It's not your fault. The War was different for all of us. For me, I remember those days as a time of fear and terror. My father, grandfather and aunt were killed by the Dominion, while the rest of us lived at the mansion in horror that, any moment, they would attack and kill us all. When I became Countess, I swore that I would never let my people be enslaved to that same kind of fear ever again."

"A worthy vow," Crixus nodded.

"Now, then," Selvia sighed, wiping her eyes. "Urtius has revealed himself. He must not be allowed to carry out his plan, especially if he is in league with..._them_. I'll send the guards out to search the caves. Perhaps we'll catch him, or at least thwart his plans for the time being."

"Good," Crixus grinned.

"Perhaps I will let you join the hunt," Selvia stated. "But that must come later. For now, I must return to the people and hear their petitions. We will speak of this again later this evening."

At this, Selvia left the private room and returned to speak with those in her court. Crixus, meanwhile, left the room and went to seek out Petruvius once again. He was determined to speak further with someone who had experienced war with him - as he could not have Gorak or Shaddar with him, people who knew war as deeply and intimately as he had, Petruvius was the only one who had even an inkling of what true battle was - and who could devote to him all of his time.

When he came to the room, he found Lethia curled up on the corner of the bed, looking like a spider hiding from strangers. Petruvius was awake and alert and answered the door when Crixus entered, telling him that nothing untoward had happened while he was away and that she took that posture as soon as she awoke, saw that Crixus was not there and caught a glimpse of him instead. Crixus then told Petruvius all that had happened that night in the Count's Arms, leaving out his treatment of Lethia.

"This is most dire news, sir," Petruvius said. "If the Thalmor are here in Cyrodiil..."

"Don't be a fool, Petruvius," Crixus replied.

"But after all we've seen, sir," Petruvius continued. "How can you deny that they're involved? You heard it with your own ears!"

"Just because it was an Altmer," Crixus 'reasoned'. "Doesn't automatically make him a Thalmor. He-He probably was acting of his own accord and-and used the Thalmor's name just to scare that mongrel Urtius into submission."

"But everything in Skyrim, sir..."

"What about Skyrim?" Crixus retorted. "They were only there because Ulfric Storm-cunt _had_ to b*tch and moan and make a fuss about worshiping Talos."

"That doesn't explain why they were on Solstheim, like you yourself said, sir," Petruvius continued. "Or why they were in Winterhold, or what happened at Solitude."

"Just whose side are you on, squire?" Crixus replied.

"Yours, sir, of course!" Petruvius nodded. "It's only, well, if I may be so bold..."

Crixus groaned. "What is it?"

"Why are you so determined," Petruvius asked. "To dismiss the Thalmor threat as insignificant? We've clearly seen just how deeper their infection has been, how can you possibly deny it now?"

"Because there's no proof they've been anywhere in the Empire but Skyrim," Crixus angrily retorted. "And there's no proof that they weren't in the Empire before Ulfric slaughtered everyone in Markarth and openly defied the White-Gold Concordant. The Empire would have noticed if someone were trying to influence them, they wouldn't let the Dominion have any place in their lands."

"But you've seen that they _have_ infiltrated our lands," Petruvius replied.

"Shut up, servant!" Crixus shouted. "Shut the fuck up! You don't know shite, Petruvius! Do you hear me? Nothing!"

"Alright, I don't know anything," Petruvius relented. "It was just a question."

"It's a stupid fucking question is what it is!" Crixus retorted. "And it smacks of treason. The Empire is strong. We defeated the Dominion, and I'll not have any more talk about the Thalmor infiltrating every echelon of the Empire. That's fear-mongering and treasonous; the kind of bull-shite Ulfric used to seduce the weak and disloyal to his cause. Now if what we're planning here will have any chance of success, I will need you to be loyal to the Empire and to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, whatever you wish," Petruvius bowed.

Crixus angrily walked over to the window and gazed out at the Gold Coast. There was calm in the sea and respite, an escape from the truth. For he knew that the Dominion were everywhere and, despite this knowledge, refused to accept the truth. The truth, for him, would mean the destruction of everything he believed in, everything he had fought for and worshiped. The truth would mean an even worse defeat than the death of the Emperor: the truth meant that the Empire had lost the war and that all the lives lost - his father, his grandfather, Selvia's father, Surius' first wife, the children in the Imperial City, the brave men and women of the 9th Legion - would have been for nothing.

Better to believe a comforting lie than accept the truth that he was wrong.

"Now, then," Crixus said. "We've got a manhunt to commence. Are you with me?"

"As always, sir," Petruvius returned.

"And you, Lethia?" Crixus asked. She unfurled from her position at Crixus' words, though remained in her corner.

"I would seek out those learned in the magical arts," she muttered. "That I may increase my power."

"That might be a good idea," Crixus stated. "And it seems that we've got right here a perfect match: the Thief, the Warrior and the Mage. Together we'll be invincible."

"Unfortunately," Petruvius said. "We might not be able to find anyone interested in magical education, unless it's with the Synod or the College of Whispers."

"That will not last," Crixus shook his head. "As bad as the Oblivion Crisis was, we cannot let fear of magic to rule the Empire. If we allow fear to bind us, we will become as vile, base and ignorant as the Nords. Gods, even _they_ have their little College of Winterhold! This is _Cyrodiil_, the cosmopolitan heart of the Empire, the last hope for reason, justice and civilized man in Tamriel! We won't let those ignorant little snow-backs have _anything_ over us! I swear to you all, today begins a new day for the Empire. We will reform the Mages Guild and show the world that we are still a beacon of enlightenment and magical education."

"A rousing speech, slave," Lethia stated. "But where will you find those to join your cause?"

"There are bound to be other people like Marcurio," Crixus stated. "People who are dissatisfied with the dealings of the Synod and the College of Whispers. All we need to do is find them. Then, once we have enough people, we will seek out where the seats of power of the Synod and the College of Whispers lie and we will overthrow them, demanding the reinstatement of the Mages Guild."

"If I may ask, sir," Petruvius interjected. "Why is there a need to reinstate the Mages Guild?"

"Were you not listening?" Crixus asked. "I've already said that the time for being gripped by Nord-like fears is over. The Oblivion Crisis has long-since ended: isn't it time the people of Cyrodiil got over their foolish superstitions and fears and reinstated the Mages Guild? Gods, we're Colovians, not Nords! We should be past such superstitions!"

"So what do we do?" Lethia asked.

"I want both of you to frequent the Flowing Bowl and the Count's Arms at odd intervals today," Crixus stated. "Spread the word that the Mages Guild is back. Maybe if we spread the word enough, those with the desire to join will make themselves known."

"What will you do, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I'll ask the Countess," Crixus replied. "If I can join the hunt for Urtius. I'd like to see just who his contacts might be. Aside from the Merchants Guild, there were others that night in the Count's Arms. I want to know who they are. Also, I have some questions for Decimus about the Fighters Guild."

* * *

While Lethia and Petruvius spread rumors about the resurgence of the Mages Guild, Crixus was spending his time wandering about the castle, looking for someone. Like many in Tamriel, he put great stock in magic and, if he ever decided to take the initiative in becoming Emperor, he would have to have magic on his side. For, to him, the magic of the Mages Guild and skilled sorcerers was permissible, unlike the god-like crutch of the Voice.

But he also would need the Fighters Guild, if only to have those with whom he could hone his own fighting skills. Therefore he sought out Decimus, whom he had seen going into the Fighters Guild hall in town. Therefore he went in search of his father, to see if he had indeed gone there as he had before-times. After ten minutes of searching, he found Uncle Surius on one of the castle towers, staring out at the bay.

"My good uncle!" Crixus greeted. "I've been looking for you. I would like to have a word."

"Ah, Servius!" Surius grinned. "There you are! Selvia had been worried about you since your disappearance. Me? I didn't worry, not too much at least. Doubtless you went in search of the local fare: trust me, it's worth it." He winked and chuckled knowingly.

"Not this time, uncle," Crixus replied. "However, I would like to ask you about your son Decimus."

"Ah, yes, my middle son," Surius nodded. "What do you wish to know?"

"Has he gone down to the Fighters Guild today?" Crixus asked. "I hadn't seen him since the dinner, and..."

"Yes, he often goes down there," Surius replied. "He trains with his arms, as per his aunt's orders. His heart, however, is far from warfare and battle."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "Well, I should go look for him, then."

"Wait a minute, Servius," Surius interjected. "Might I ask _you_ something as well?"

"Anything," Crixus replied.

"I don't know how much longer you plan to stay in Anvil," Surius began. "If you're anything like me, you can't be in one place for very long." He sighed. "At least, that's how I was when I was your age. Bah, but I'm rambling. You'll be eager to be on your way shortly, and, while you're away, I would like to make request of a personal nature."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "Well, alright then, let's hear it."

"As you know," Surius sighed. "My youngest children, Alcedonia and Quintus, have gone missing. I refuse to believe they're dead. While you are away, I want you to seek them out. Then when you have found them, let me know that they live. Bring them back home, send me a message, a raven, a-a courier, some token of theirs,_ anything_! I don't care, so long as I know that my babies are still alive." Crixus saw a shadow pass over the face of his favorite uncle; a twinge of sadness pricked at his heart and he placed his arm around his uncle's shoulders.

"I will do as you ask," Crixus assured him.

* * *

As Surius had predicted, Crixus was getting weary of Anvil indeed. Aside from Cassius Urtius, the city seemed to be doing as well as any he had seen in his lifetime. But moreover Crixus was feeling an itching in his feet and legs to be on the open road again: a wanderlust that could not be satisfied with short walks around the familiar streets of Anvil. He wanted to see the Imperial City and the other counties in their prime after the glorious Reconstruction: Cheydinhal he had seen and known almost as much as Anvil and he wanted to see the familiar haunt once again.

For the rest of the day, he waited outside of the Maro mansion where Surius said he might run into Decimus that evening on his way back from the Fighters Guild hall. As it was getting on to evening, a new thought erupted in Crixus' mind and his feet began carrying him westward, towards the Count's Arms. Neither Petruvius nor Lethia had reported back, but that was not his intention. Instead, just as he was coming near to the Count's Arms, he turned right into a narrow alleyway and went in as far as the wall. Turning to the left, he saw a cluster of stone houses, poor houses, stacked between the Count's Arms and the city wall. He came to one such house whose door was barred and a sign hanging upon the lintel thereof, reading: _Cursed and condemned. Do not enter._

Crixus removed the bar and kicked in the door. Inside, he found a small house with two rooms and a stairway leading to the two bedrooms above. Slowly he moved through the house, examining first the small family room with its cold, ashen hearth. Looters had stolen everything of value in the house, leaving nothing but a bare, dirty, empty and cobweb-filled house. The walls had deep cracks in the masonry, but they were still standing. Walking up to the stairs that led up from the family room, he found the wooden stairs to be old, worn and creaky. Part of him feared to put his whole weight on them, yet he _had_ to see what lay beyond.

Very carefully he crept up the stairs, each one straining and groaning under his weight. As he came to the top, he knelt down and removed the last but one stair from the top. Underneath it was cut into the masonry of the roof a little cubbyhole where one could hide small valuables. Inside he found a tiny knife, the thing a little boy might keep in his pocket for his everyday needs. The bone handle was brittle and the blade had rusted, and it was laughable compared to the knives that Servius Crixus used now, but to the boy who had placed it here, this was his most precious possession. He had long planned that, should she ever become so horrible that she would endanger his father's life, he would end her life by his own hands. To that end, he had hidden this knife just in case he ever needed a weapon.

Crixus grinned at the memory and took the knife from its hiding place. He had no more use for it, for Sedris Ulver had died with his father when a Dominion host passed through Anvil and Kvatch on their way to Hammerfell. With the little bone knife in his hands, he climbed up the last steps and looked at the two rooms on either side. The one to the right belonged to his father and his stepmother: from there he heard a whistling noise, like the howling of the wind. His mind reeled from the memory of being beaten with a stout reed by his stepmother whenever she was too drained to use magicka to punish them. He turned to the left, to the children's room. It too was bare of everything save for cobwebs covering the ceiling and corners.

He turned from the empty bedrooms and made his way back down the creaking stairs to the landing, then turned into the bare kitchen. It too was empty: the apple and the table Valerius had knocked it off of were long since gone. His eyes turned towards the trapdoor that led to the cellar. The looters had left it open: surely, having taken everything of value, they had no need for secrecy. On the top step of the wooden stairs leading down into the darkened cellar, he saw the eerie sight of a skeletal hand resting upon the top step, as if grasping desperately for escape, for life. Into Crixus' mind again came the memory of what he had seen in the cellar when he was playing hide-and-seek and came upon the ceremony that changed his life forever. Just how much of Sedris' dark magic still clung to this house after her death? Aside from the howling, the sight of the dead body was enough to make him believe that there might still be some presence within the house.

A shadow passed over the door and, with a start, Crixus stepped back. Looking again, he saw the shadow of Petruvius standing in the doorway.

"Sir?" he asked. "Are you in here?"

"Wha-What?" Crixus breathed. "Petruvius, is that you? Wha-What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was on my way out of the Count's Arms," the squire replied. "And I saw you going down this way. What would you have to do in this house, sir? It's condemned."

"This was my home, Petruvius," Crixus muttered. He suddenly realized that he had shared personal information with someone who was not family. Not since his time with Eirik had he shared information he would never have dared share with anyone else.

"Your home, sir?" Petruvius asked.

Crixus sighed. "Yes. I lived here for fifteen years, until I joined the Legion. Oh, how I longed to be rid of this place, but my father needed me..." He trusted Petruvius more than others, and since he had seen the place and heard him utter personal information, and being in the house of his youth, he felt more open than usual.

"...and then my brother ran away on the eve of his thirteenth birthday," Crixus continued. "My brother Venerius, ran away to join the Legion. I knew he was too young, and I couldn't let him die. I was always looking after him ever since I could remember. I had to, what with my stepmother being an abusive Dunmer witch."

"Dunmer?" Petruvius asked. "Not Nord?"

"No, not Nord," Crixus replied.

"I-I always thought, sir," Petruvius said. "That the reason you hated Nords was because..."

"...because they're barbarous little shites, that's why," Crixus replied. "And they have no desire to change. But I was exposed to Dunmer culture in Mournhold; they weren't all bad there."

"And all Nords are still bad?" Petruvius asked.

In any other situation, Crixus would have exploded on his squire. But here, in his childhood home, his defenses were weaker than usual.

"Yes, they are," he sighed. "If my time in Skyrim has taught me anything, it's that all Nords are exactly as the public opinion of them says. No more and no less." He looked down at the bare, filthy house of his youth, then back to Petruvius. "So? Did your time in the Count's Arms bear any fruit?"

"There were a few people asking me where they could find the new Guild-master of the Mages Guild," Petruvius said. "I had no answer, but you said to send it all to you."

"You did well," Crixus sighed. "Now, let's leave this depressing ruin and go back to the Maro manor. Lethia might be looking for us. Please, squire, tell no one of what you've heard or seen here."

"Why?" Petruvius asked. "I mean, if I may be so bold as to ask."

"My past belongs to me," Crixus stated. "It's no one else's burden, no one else's concern."

Yet even as he spoke, he felt strangely lighter. Selvia and the others were still very new to him, and they seemed far too formal to be bothered with the bad things of his personal life. But now, as with Elisif, he felt lighter and more secure. Something about laying his burden on someone, if only for a moment, lightened and strengthened him.

"Just give me a moment, squire," Crixus muttered. "I'll be right there."

"But what about..."

"Please, just go outside," Crixus insisted.

Petruvius nodded, then turned back into the alley. Crixus, meanwhile, turned back to the two-story hovel that had been the only home he ever knew. His throat was constricted and he realized that his eyes were leaking. Opening up had been harder than he expected; part of him wanted to hold on to the ghosts of this place. If he let them go, after all, what would he have left? But then he remembered that Petruvius had not laughed him to scorn, had not belittled or mocked his pain. As with Elisif, he found solace for one brief moment.

He held up the little bone knife, wondering if he should break it or not. There was no need for it anymore and, as a weapon, it was inferior to everything he possessed. All it reminded him of was the pain and anger that had fueled him as a child. He had Petruvius and he had Elisif; he did not need to shoulder this burden alone anymore. He could confide in them, find strength, solace and, perhaps, even healing in their company and their love.

His hand closed upon the knife, then slowly placed it back into his pocket. There was plenty of ugliness in the world, plenty of pain and suffering, and great cause of anger. Letting it go would only make him vulnerable, as it had been when his goddess had betrayed him. He needed to be strong, not weak and vulnerable. They would bear the burden, yes, but they would not take it away, not all of it. That was still _his_ to bear. A moment or two of solace would swiftly end and he would only be left empty and vulnerable. He did not need to shoulder his burden alone: he _wanted_ to shoulder it all alone. Turning away from the depressing shell of a house, he walked outside and found Petruvius waiting for him.

"I need to write," he said at last.

* * *

That evening, Crixus found Selena in the castle and asked her to have the servants bring food, parchment, quill and ink up to his room. There he and Lethia retreated to after they had met Decimus at the Maro manor. He had little to say to them, being too exhausted from his training with the Fighters Guild all that day. All he had said was that if Crixus wished to join the Guild, he should speak to Master Oreyn in Chorrol.

In the room, the three of them feasted on roasted mud-crab and warm bread. Over their meal, they discussed what had happened that day. Both Petruvius and Lethia had, for the most part, found more than a few people interested in finding the newly-formed Mages Guild. Both of them also had several who wanted an address to come to or to send messages to in order to seek out the Mages Guild.

"Good, this is good," Crixus stated. "Tomorrow, I want you to go back there, see if you can find these people again, get their addresses. I will need to be sending ravens out to rally the new members."

"But what happens," Petruvius asked. "When they find out there is no Mages Guild?"

"Who says there won't be?" Crixus asked.

"You intend to build your own Mages Guild?" asked Lethia. "An intriguing proposition for a slave."

"We will need a charter," Crixus began. "A new charter, one based on the original one that must surely be somewhere. Perhaps the Synod may keep a copy at the old Arcane University: I remember Marcurio talking about how they hoarded magical artifacts. But to steal it, we will need the Thieves Guild, so that means talking to this person they've mentioned: the one who's been looking for secret, illegal work. Then we'll need a master of magic, one whose power will judge the worthiness of all others: the new Arch-Mage."

"And who will be the new Arch-Mage?" Lethia asked.

"That's what we'll have to find out," Crixus grinned. "Once we leave Anvil." He turned to Petruvius.

"Take note," he said, gesturing to the ink, parchment and quill. "I need to write a letter to Elisif in Solitude."

Petruvius nodded, then quickly readied himself to write. With hands and ears moving as swiftly as Crixus spoke, he wrote down exactly what Crixus dictated.

"'To Elisif Oyvidsdottir, earl...' no, _jarl_. 'Jarl of Solitude.'" Crixus began. "'I am writing to let you know that I am alive and well, having arrived safely in Anvil. While I would dearly wish to say more, propriety demands brevity. Please have your court mage Sybille Stentor write to Mirabelle Ervine, Arch-Mage of Winterhold, with my regards and a request for counsel regarding the recreation of the Mages Guild. For you, my lady, I will keep ever in mind as I face whatever life sends my way. My sincerest and warmest regards, S. Crixus.'"

"Who is this Elisif, hmm?" Lethia asked, a cheeky, mocking grin on her face. "It sounds like a Nord's name. Surely there cannot be a Nord slave who has your 'sincerest and warmest regards', is there?"

"That's none of your business," Crixus replied. He turned back to Petruvius. "And finish it with this post-script: 'Forward your next reply by the swiftest raven to me, care of the Hero's Welcome tavern in the city of Kvatch, Kvatch county, the West Weald of Cyrodiil.' Did you get that?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius said proudly as he finished it up.

"Good," Crixus nodded. "Tomorrow, I'll see if I can get the Countess to let me go with her guards in search of Urtius, while you two go back to the inns and try to get addresses from all of those interested in the Mages Guild. We will need to keep correspondence with them until the time is right to go public."

"What _is_ the Mages Guild, if I may ask?" Lethia asked. "And if you won't hit me over it, you brutish, barbaric slave?"

"Hit her?" Petruvius asked.

"It's nothing," Crixus dismissed. "She was being a b*tch and I put her in her place." He then turned to Lethia. "Oh, yes, that's right. You don't know, do you? Well, the Mages Guild was formed by a very powerful and very wise High Elf who wanted to bring magical practice and service as a practical guild for the people of Tamriel."

"Are not your enemies, the Dominion, also High Elves?" asked Lethia.

"So?" Crixus asked.

"So why cling to those things of your enemy?" Lethia drove home.

"Just shut up already," Crixus groaned. "You don't understand what you're talking about."

"What do I not understand?" she asked. "You slaves carry on the traditions of your elven masters. You are still bound to them, if only in name. Is this not so?"

"Look, it doesn't matter!" Crixus shouted. "The Mages Guild was a good idea, and we need them back again. And I'm going to be the one to bring it back, and you two will help me." He then made his way to the wall and slouched against it. "Petruvius, find a swift raven to send that letter. Lethia, enjoy the bed. It's the least I can give you. I'm going to try to sleep against the wall. Goodnight."

* * *

Crixus' sleep was disturbed once again by images of what appeared to be the Synod office, rifled papers and the search for something. When he finally awoke, it was to the pounding of a fist upon the door of his room. He shook himself awake and ordered Petruvius to answer the door. At the door stood Casimir, the Countess' steward, who requested Crixus to attend her at court that day. He told the steward he would be there shortly, then asked for privacy to speak to his 'servants', as he called them. Once alone, he ordered them to go back to the inns; they had not succeeded in gathering addresses yesterday and he needed them.

The rest of that morning was spent seated at Selvia's side in the throne room, listening to her hear the petitions of her people. With each one, Crixus found himself admiring his aunt in a way he never thought possible. Despite what Urtius had said, she seemed both a skilled diplomat and a kind ruler. She always listened to everything her people said and, no matter who they were - even in the case of Nords - she ruled fairly, justly and without bias or preferential treatment. He had not met anyone in Skyrim or Mournhold who could compare to her.

Since they would be at court most of that day, lunch was served on two small wooden chairs brought out for Selvia and Crixus, where they ate a light meal and drank alto wine. During lunch there was a slight lull in the amount of petitions and Crixus was permitted to ask what had been on his mind all that morning.

"Your Highness," he said. "Why have I been brought here to sit at your court? I have yet to display my skills to you, as you requested, and my skills are best demonstrated in action, not at court."

"Captain Roderic is returning from the hunt for Cassius Urtius," she replied. "He will give his report here upon his return. Also, I wanted to have family with me at court. I know that I am frequently busy and have not the time to spend with you, so I thought that I would make it up."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Crixus nodded. "But I would like to remind you that I am leaving soon. I do have things to do in the other counties."

"I understand," she replied. "It saddens me to see you go, but you are free to do as you will. I would only ask that you remain until this evening. We are having a ceremony in remembrance of those we lost during the War, and I would like you to attend before you must go."

Crixus hung his head, thinking of all those who had died in the 9th Legion. "I'll remain here. For you."

She smiled. "Thank you, Servius. Now, let us wait until..."

"Roderic Dracus, Captain of the City Guard!" announced the announcer at the door.

"Speak of the lords of Oblivion!" Selvia chuckled, then turned to the captain, who had saluted her with a fist upon his chest. She gestured him to come forward which he did, kneeling before the throne.

"Your Highness," the captain said. "My men have searched the caves in the surrounding region. We have not found Urtius, but we have found some documents in the Hrota cave."

"The Hrota cave?" Selvia asked. "That was the one just outside the city, right?"

"Yes, Your Highness," the captain replied. "We found it to be recently deserted, with several signs that someone had once been there. We also found several documents." He opened the bag hanging from his back and handed Casimir a leather valise. Casimir opened the valise and handed several parchment documents to the Countess.

"I took the liberty of examining them, Your Highness," the captain said. "There were several names of important citizens, here in town as well as in Kvatch, Bruma and the Imperial City."

"Thank you, captain," Selvia replied. "I will examine these thoroughly. You should be commended for your service to the throne of Anvil." The captain saluted, then Selvia dismissed him and he left. Once the doors closed upon his departure, Crixus turned to her.

"Do I have your permission to leave the city?" Crixus asked.

"Where will you go?" she asked.

"Kvatch, first," Crixus stated. "I'll need to read those papers and see if I can track down any of Urtius' associates."

"You have my permission to leave," she said with a grin. "As long as you stay for the ceremony tonight."

"Agreed, Your Highness," Crixus nodded. "Now, then, there is one last question I want to ask you."

"Yes? What is that?"

"While I was in Skyrim," Crixus began. "I was on assignment from the Emperor."

"The Emperor himself?" Selvia whispered.

"The same," Crixus nodded. "He gave me a very important assignment, one that I have yet to fulfill. My question for you is this: should the Emperor demand the services of Anvil, will you respond if I ask you in his name?"

"For the present," Selvia said. "The danger to my throne is diminished. As you know, we are all very loyal, the Maro family. If the Emperor, therefore, has need of County Anvil, I will send whatever forces I have at hand. You have my word."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "That easily?"

"You are family," Selvia noted. "And you're loyal. I have no cause to think you are lying. Severus trusts you, and he is one of the Emperor's personal guards. I trust you as well."

"Good," Crixus nodded. "The Emperor will be very pleased."

Crixus was, indeed, pleased. Though he knew very little about becoming Emperor or forming an empire, he guessed that he would need some kind of force on his side. He hoped to have the Fighters Guild, which meant that he would have to meet Guild-Master Oreyn in Chorrol. His plan to reform the Mages Guild was tied into his desire to build force: not only mercenaries but mages would give him quite a bit of leverage. But to reform the Mages Guild, he would need to meet with this strange person seeking out the Thieves Guild; having power of the purse might also make the transition easier. As far as martial force went, the Fighters Guild would not be enough. He had Eirik at his beck and call after the siege of Solitude, but he knew that not only would a few Nords make little difference, but that the Grey Spirit could be as much a danger as a help.

What Crixus needed was a personal fighting force, one that would answer only to him in complete loyalty.

* * *

**(AN: Thankfully, we are leaving Anvil immediately next chapter. I _hated_ how this chapter seemed to wear on and so little happened. Mostly just character and plot development. Lethia did have a point, though, about the elvish mastery and all. This, of course, makes me think that this is the reason why the Mages Guild [and, for the reasons i stated above, the Fighters Guild] have no presence in Skyrim. The Nords don't trust the elves, so they would not allow the elvish Mages Guild to have a presence in their land, just as how, after they ravaged their land in the First Era, the Nords would not allow the Akaviri-based Fighters Guild to exist in Skyrim.)  
**

**(As you can see, we're also building up everything that is to happen in this story, as well as Crixus' motivations. As far as why he refuses to believe the Thalmor are as deeply involved as they are, it is part of his hypocritical nature. He criticizes those who believe in the gods as having "blind faith", and yet his own faith in the Empire blinds him to the truth that they lost the War, the Dominion got everything they wanted and they're actively weakening the Empire he loves. He wants to believe that the Empire is invincible, that they "won" the Great War, that the lives lost were not for nothing. Kind of like his own past: he doesn't want to let that go because holding onto that hate makes him, as he believes, "stronger.")**


	8. The Road to Kvatch

**(AN: I like the idea of warriors, but i've had quite a bit of bad experience with soldiers who think that, because of their uniform, they can get away with bullying people. And the good thing about being an author, i get to eviscerate everyone who's ever wronged me in fiction! [whether they be bullies in uniform or real-life Idolaf Battle-Borns now withered away into feebleness])  
**

**(I'm gonna let you get on to reading, but i just have one last, less serious, thing to say. Through my reading, Snow Elves had already devolved and gone underground by the time the Yokudans invaded Hammerfell, so Lethia would have little to no knowledge of Redguards.)**

* * *

**The Road to Kvatch**

That evening, Crixus joined Selvia, Surius, Decimus and the wives of Hieronymous, Tyrellius and Severus and their children in a small, personal chapel within the castle. It was very small, with only eight shrines in it and a stone table surrounded by the shrines. Upon the table were small statues, some in the form of men and others in the forms of women. Before each statuette were small candles which those gathered here lit and knelt quietly beside them. At the back, Marcella explained this ritual to Crixus.

"Reverence of our ancestors is an ancient tradition," said Marcella. "Even the Church of the Eight allows us to worship them, if only in Arkay's name." She pointed to the heads. "Up there are icons depicting Caius, Ariela, Aia, Gentonius, Gaius, Vilenia and your mother Claudia. Though Alcedonia and Quintus should be respected up there as well."

"Surius doesn't think they're dead," Crixus muttered.

"He is a fool," Marcella replied. "Filling their heads with fairy tales, children's stories about knights and honor. That's what's gotten into their heads, driving them off to live in the wilds with the wolves, foxes and animal worshipers."

Livia lit a little candle by Gaius' statue, then quickly left the chapel, not daring to look at Crixus. Once again he felt uncomfortable around her: a nagging feeling was building up in the pit of his stomach that, one day, he would have to tell her the truth about what happened to her son, both her and her husband, his boyhood friend Severus. After Selvia lit a candle at her father's statuette, she walked over to Crixus with her head bowed.

"You should light a candle before your mother," she muttered. "It would be an honor to her name."

Crixus nodded, then took the candle she offered her and walked over to the little arrangement of statuettes. With the candle in hand, he lit one of the smaller votive candles before the statuette of Claudia, carved in the likeness of the portrait he had seen in the gallery. It felt good to be here, in the presence of someone worthy of love, unlike the Divines.

* * *

It was two more days before Crixus and his companions finally left Anvil. On the sixth, the day when things were to happen, Crixus decided to prepare for the journey ahead. He decided to go with Petruvius and Lethia personally, as he had the bag and there was still much to discuss. As far as he heard, he had received five different addresses from those interested in speaking to the 'Arch-Mage' of the Mages Guild.

"You are aware, of course," Lethia stated. "That there is no Arch-Mage."

"Aha," Crixus stated, turning around to face his comrades, walking backwards. "But there _will_ be one. For the present, however, I will act as the secretary of the..."

"Look out!" a voice cried.

Crixus turned around just in time to realize that he had almost walked into an errand rider galloping through the streets. Anger at having not hurt something since he struck Lethia welled up inside Crixus and he seized the boy - no older than twelve - off the back of the horse and threw him onto the ground.

"Watch where you're going!" Crixus shouted.

"I-I'm sorry, sir!" the boy cried. "I was just-just delivering a message to my..."

"You weren't paying attention, were you?" Crixus retorted. "Where's your horse owner's license?"

"My...what?"

"You stole that horse, didn't you?" Crixus shouted, taking the reins of the horse with one hand while he saw the boy was getting up and starting to walk away.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, fuck-face!" Crixus retorted, seizing the boy by his hair and turning him around so that he was an inch from his face. "You try to run me down, you little shite, then run away, thinking you're clever and all? I'm gonna find a magistrate and I'll sue you, you understand me? I'm gonna take away the license you don't fucking have!"

"Please, don't hurt me!" the boy wept, tears streaming from his eyes. "I was just delivering a message to my master! That's his horse, honest! I didn't steal it!"

Crixus looked down at the boy's trousers, stained dark around the crotch, and burst out into mocking laughter. "Yeah, you're right to piss your pants, you little shite! You know why? Because I'm a soldier! Yeah, that's right, I'm in the Legion! So you can run and b*tch and moan and cry to the city guards all you want, they're just gonna side with me! Who's gonna believe some horse-thieving, pants-pissing little shite like you?" With that, Crixus kicked the boy back with his foot, sending him falling to the ground. He then aimed a kick at him as he tried to scurry back onto his feet to get away.

"Yeah, that's right, run away, you little coward!" Crixus shouted. "Go cry to your mother as you suck on her tits, you little horse-thief!"

"Sir, don't you think you were being too hard on him?" Petruvius asked.

"The little b*tch deserved it," Crixus replied, turning back to his comrades. "Try to run me down, the little fucker! Wouldn't be a bit surprised if he's a ***-**** Nord."

"You threatened to sue him!" Petruvius replied.

Crixus chuckled. "I made up half the shite I said just to scare the piss out of him. Like I even know or care if you need a license to ride a horse. Besides..." He took the reins of the horse. "We now have a horse for our journey."

"What about the boy's errand?"

"That's his problem," Crixus stated. "Besides, I'm positive the little shite was lying just to make himself seem innocent. He wasn't sorry he almost hit me, he was sorry his pathetic arse got caught."

"If I remember correctly," Lethia interjected. "You weren't watching where you were going, and he did warn you."

"Shut up, b*tch!" Crixus retorted. "Or do you want to receive the same as that little shite did?" Lethia did not respond.

"That's what I thought," Crixus gasped, his blood still boiling. "Didn't see any of you speaking up in his behalf. Hell, if you had even half a brain, I'd have expected you, Lethia, to help me!"

"Why?" she retorted.

"He was a slave!" Crixus retorted. "He almost ran you over! Gods, you might have been with child and that inconsiderate little fuck almost killed you _and_ your baby!"

"But I wasn't," she replied. "So why should I lie for the sake of one slave over another?"

"Because I said so!" Crixus retorted. He then looked after where the child had ran. "Stupid little shite. Probably gonna b*tch to the guards. If he couldn't protect himself, he deserved what he got." He turned to go on his way, feeling dissatisfied with his tirade. Not because he felt as though he had done wrong - he clearly believed himself to be in the right and would have repeated everything he said to any magistrate, including the lie that Lethia had been pregnant - but because he hadn't actually had the satisfaction of shedding the blood of Nordic men, or anyone for that matter.

* * *

By the end of that day, the three of them had purchased all the supplies they would need for a journey: another horse, rope, traveling clothes, warm cloaks for blankets, potions and dried meat and fruits for a long journey. As far as weapons went, all of their weapons were in Crixus' room in the castle. Petruvius had an Imperial tower shield and a gladius, Crixus had his knives, the Bow of Nocturnal and the Nightingale Blade: any arrows would have to be gotten from Captain Roderic at the castle. Lethia had no weapon, for her own staff, which she had born in her deformed state, had been lost in the Forgotten Vale and, for the present, she had no need of a weapon.

"We will need to find ourselves a suitable staff," Crixus reminded himself.

That evening, the Countess held a feast for them in the main dining hall. Surius, Decimus and Caldana were the only others present, for Lethia asked to be kept in secret and have food brought up to her. They all ate, drank and made merry, telling jokes and funny stories and laughing merrily. Crixus was happy for Selvia that Cassius Urtius had been dealt with before he could have harmed them: as distant as he felt from them - having not spent much of his adult life in their company - he was nevertheless growing vaguely fond of the Maro family.

"Is there anything I can do to help you on your journey?" Selvia asked.

"Please, aunt," Crixus replied. "I'm more than capable of taking care of my own problems."

"I know," she returned. "But I would like to help in any way that I can."

"You've already helped enough," Crixus stated. "By giving me a place to stay, food to eat and your word to help the Emperor. What more could I ask?"

"Anything," she replied.

Crixus grinned and looked over at Surius, who winked and raised his cup in recognition.

"Not that, though," Selvia knowingly interjected. "It's bad enough that the King of High Rock tolerates a...harlot's guild in his kingdom."

"Come now, Selvia," Surius chuckled. "The poor women need a job somehow."

"They can find legal employment elsewhere," Selvia stated firmly. She then turned to Crixus. "Now, if there is anything _else_ I could help you with..."

"Actually, there is," Crixus stated. "You see, my other friend, who doesn't make herself known. Corprus, I'm afraid." At this, Selvia burst into laughter. "What's so funny? Did I say something?"

"Listen to you," Selvia chuckled. "Corprus doesn't exist anymore."

"It doesn't?" Crixus asked.

"Not since the late Third Era," she continued, a grin still on her face. "It disappeared when the Nerevarine defeated Dagoth-Ur at the Red Mountain, six years before the Oblivion Crisis. There hasn't been a single reported case of it anywhere in or out of Morrowind or anywhere else in Tamriel."

"Oh," Crixus nodded: finally a lie too big and outrageous to pass off as truth. "Well, nevertheless, she has an...unfortunate affliction. And because she's very shy and particular about her appearance, she avoids making herself known. However, being a mage, she will require certain things in our journey, things that I've been unable to procure through the usual channels. If it was at all possible for you to procure these things, we would both be very grateful."

At this, Selvia picked up her silver bell and rang it, at which Casimir appeared. She told him that Crixus was looking for a magical item, to which he nodded and approached where Crixus sat.

"Her Highness told me," Casimir stated. "That you were interested in certain magical artifacts."

"Well, yes, for my traveling companion," Crixus replied. "A staff would be useful."

"As a representative of the Synod," Casimir began. "I regret to inform you that we do not sell or purvey magical items of any nature. As you will no doubt understand, there have been fears and doubts about the safety of magicka in response to the Oblivion Crisis. This led to the Magocratic Schism of the second year of the Fourth Era, which dissolved the Mages Guild, closed down all magical emporiums and centers of magical learning, including the Arcane University, and led to the foundation of the Synod and the College of Whispers."

"Yes, I know my history," Crixus answered. "But, as a friend of the Countess, surely we could come to some sort of an arrangement."

"As I told the Countess when I was given the position as steward," Casimir continued. "The Synod's purpose is the collecting and securing of dangerous magical artifacts, as well as the promotion of the interests of the Synod over those of the College of Whispers."

Crixus decided to press his luck again. He remembered from his talks with Marcurio that the College of Whispers dealt in research, and hoped that Casimir could be persuaded with a little bit of reasoning. With one finger, he gestured for the steward to come closer to him and whispered into his ear: "My traveling companion is the last of Snow Elves, the ancient mer race that once inhabited the North before the Nords came out of Atmora and drove them underground. I planned to take her to the Imperial City to introduce to your order, but, if you intend to endanger her life by refusing her any magical protection or staffs with which to defend herself, then I may have no choice but to seek out the College of Whispers."

"Indeed!" he exclaimed. "And maybe you would be adverse to letting me _see_ this 'last of the Snow Elves?' Hmm?"

"For you, I just might let you," Crixus replied. He then turned to the Countess and asked to be dismissed for a while. She conceded, then Crixus led Casimir back through the halls up to his chamber. At the door he opened up and Lethia, whose hood was down, turned to those who approached.

"By Ruptga!" Casimir muttered.

"And what is that?" she asked. "He looks like your ship's captain, but what was _he_ anyway? Looks like one of your people, yet...he's too dark to be a..."

"This is Casimir," Crixus stated. "He's the Countess' steward. He's a Redguard, they're not related to my people or the Nords." He turned to Casimir. "As you can see, she is unlike any elf you have ever seen."

"Indeed," he replied. "Well, then, her existence must be insured. I'll see if I can find something for your needs before you leave tomorrow. You have my word!"

"Good," Crixus smiled. "Now that that's settled, let's return to the feast, shall we?"

The feast went on for quite a while, and they all ate well and heartily. Towards the end, Crixus called Surius aside and asked if he could fulfill that 'other' thing. With a grin, he acquiesced and, within half an hour, had a shapely young Breton brought up to Crixus' room. Instead of the room, Crixus took her to a secluded part of the hallway and gave her a good tumble, then sent her on her way to find Surius for the bill. He then returned to their room and fell asleep against the wall, weary from his exertion.

* * *

When morning came, Crixus felt strangely dry in his mouth, as if he had gone a long way through the deserts of Hammerfell without a single drop of water. His visions also were disturbed by images of a darkened office and words under a candlelight spell: something about the Grand Council, an incident in Leyawiin and the name Aldaril appearing several times. He dismissed these, for it was early and they had best make an early start or else they would not make good time in their journey to Kvatch.

The three of them ate a very light breakfast in their room, then went about girding themselves for their journey. Petruvius had on simple traveling gear with a leather Imperial cuirass over it and his cloak on top of that, with the bag of their supplies to be hung from his horse's saddle as well as his shield: his sword would go in its sheath upon his hip. Crixus wore his traveling gear over his Nightingale gear: needful, as the days were becoming colder with the onset of autumn. His belt, which held his purse and the small satchel of potions and Severus' letters as well as a few of his knives, he girt about his loins and set one of his baldrics over his shoulder, lined with knives and a potion or two for his needs. The baldric went over the cloak he wore, binding it close to his upper body, and, upon the back, he had the scabbard for the Nightingale Blade: his bow would be with his sword on his baldric and his quiver would bounce at his left hip. Lethia had nothing else besides a small bag of supplies that went upon her horse - the one Crixus had stolen from the 'horse-thief' - and the white robes Crixus had procured for her after she was cleansed, and a gray cloak and hood to conceal her features along with riding gloves and boots.

They arrived in the castle courtyard fully geared and ready for their journey. The two horses were waiting for them, a guard each holding them ready for their arrival. Upon the steps leading to the main hall there stood Selvia Maro and uncle Surius, she in her blue dress with the gold and gem-studded cloak and Surius in a doublet with a silver cloak, ready to bid Crixus farewell.

"I wish you could have stayed here longer," Selvia said as Crixus was double-checking the saddle of Petruvius' horse. "We've only just been reunited after so many years apart, and now you're ready to leave again?"

"Oh, I'll still be around," Crixus stated. "Besides, it can't be more than ten days to send a message by raven as far as Cheydinhal. You can always keep in touch with me if you want."

"My boy, aren't you forgetting something?" Surius chuckled.

"He's right," Selvia stated. "There's only two horses for three riders. Worry not, I'll have Captain Roderic lend you a horse."

"No, no, there's no need," Crixus returned. "I made my way across Skyrim just fine on foot, I think I can manage here as well."

"But it's flatter here," Surius stated. "Longer journey than in Skyrim."

"Nevertheless, do not waste a horse on my account," Crixus stated. "All will be well." He turned to Selvia. "Say, where is your steward?"

"He said he was busy with something at the office," Selvia replied. "But he should be here shortly."

The others quietly made their way to their horses while Crixus spoke and, without the help from the guards, mounted up. Before they left, Selvia gave Crixus a map of Cyrodiil with which he could chart his course. Surius gave him his signet ring: a silver thing set with a ruby in the center.

"When you find Alcedonia and Quintus," he said. "Be sure to show them this, and tell them that their father is dying to know how they fare."

For the others, the Countess and Uncle Surius had little knowledge of what gifts to give them: therefore they each gave them something they believed would be useful. To Petruvius, Selvia gave an extra skin of water for the journey and Surius gave twenty septims. For Lethia, Surius gave her a knife to protect her on her journey.

"It won't do much as far as killing people or starting fights," he stated. "But if you find yourself between a rock and a hard place, it's always good to come prepared to defend yourself."

Selvia also gave the Snow Elf, hooded and gloved so much that her face was unrecognizable, a gift. Her gift was a smooth stone of Morrowind ebony, about the size of a hen's egg and carved with a little white rune.

"This belonged to my mother, Aia Maro," Selvia told Lethia. "It is said that the doom-stones that dot Cyrodiil's wilds may bestow gifts on those who find them. This stone will let you know when you are close to such a stone."

Lethia did not thank them for the gifts, but Petruvius and Crixus thanked them for both of them. Then, when all was done, Surius and Selvia each hugged Crixus then sent him and his companions off on their way. They left the castle gates at a brisk, walking pace, with Crixus walking in between the two horses across the bridge as they made their way to the north gate. As they were passing through the shadow of the Chapel of Dibella, Crixus saw Casimir running towards them.

"There you are!" he gasped, out of breath. "I was afraid...you had already left."

"Where were you?" Crixus asked. "I thought you were going to bring back what I asked for!"

"So I was," Casimir nodded, then gestured for Crixus to come nearer. This he did and Casimir whispered into his ear: "Since we have an understanding, I should let you know that someone broke into the Synod office last night."

Crixus' eyes swelled up, especially as he recalled his dream. "Did they take anything?"

"So far, nothing's missing," Casimir replied. "But they certainly made a mess of things. Doesn't seem like something the College of Whispers would do: I mean, if _they_ were behind it, there'd be signs of damage. After all, they _do_ summon daedra, you know."

Crixus nodded, the phrase 'incident at Leyawiin' coming back into his mind. But how did he know it? He had not left the castle all that night.

"If you will please excuse me," Casimir said aloud. "I am a busy man, and there are many in the city who do not approve of...someone like _me_ in the Synod. You'd think they never saw a Redguard sorcerer before!" He then removed from the folds of his blue and purple robes a small scroll, which he gave to Crixus.

"It's not much," he muttered. "But this should be able to enchant a staff for use. Not a very powerful staff, but you can understand the...complications I face in my line of work."

Crixus said nothing, but nodded in recognition as he took the scroll from Casimir. The Redguard bowed to Petruvius and Lethia, then went back to the castle. The three travelers, meanwhile, carried on their way through the streets of Anvil. As they approached the gates, Crixus cast one last glance over to his left, in the direction of the ruined, condemned and cursed hovel that had been his home. He shook his head, furrowed his brow and turned back to the task at hand, walking towards the gates while Petruvius and Lethia followed him on their horses. They said nothing to each other all the rest of the way through the city streets. At length they passed through the north gate and found themselves upon the sloping hills of the Gold Coast just outside of the city. Near at hand were the Horse Whisperer stables and, a little beyond, the road went straight until it came to Whitmond Farm, where it turned away westward and northward. When they came to the stables, they found a fork in the main road. To the right the road went down to the Gweden Farm, which was where Hieronymous' company was quartered during their guard of the southern border, straight ahead the road continued towards the Whitmond Farm and to the left the Gold Road would take them to Kvatch as they had intended. Here they halted for a while.

"Well, sir," Petruvius stated. "Here we are. The road lies ahead of us and unless you intend on walking to Kvatch, I would suggest you go to the Horse Whisperer stables nearby and buy a horse. We should still have enough money for that."

"I won't buy a horse," Crixus replied.

"Then you must ride with one of us," Petruvius reasoned.

"Not with me," Lethia stated. "If I must ride, I will not have a slave clinging to my back like some hideous chaurus!"

"I won't ride with any of you," Crixus returned. "I'd hate to be such a burden."

"Then you must walk, sir," Petruvius sighed. "And then it would take much longer to get to Kvatch. You can't expect us to ride ahead without you, therefore we must all go at a walking pace and we won't even reach the Brina Cross inn before nightfall." Crixus sighed. "What is it, sir?"

"I hadn't planned on letting anyone else see this," he grumbled. "But, it seems, I have no choice." His left hand reached up to the amulet upon his neck, which he squeezed. Suddenly there was a burst of darkness, and black clouds billowed around Crixus, obscuring him from the others. An eerie, ethereal horse neigh was heard and, when the darkness dissipated as suddenly and quickly as it had appeared, there stood a huge black horse with red eyes.

"This is Shadowmere," Crixus said to them. "He was given to me several months ago, and he has proven to be a valuable asset. His pace is swifter than any horse from here to Skyrim, and, with a little restraint on his part, you might be able to keep up with him." With that, Crixus leaped onto Shadowmere's back; the black horse snorted loudly, his hooves pawing at the dirt road beneath them.

"Next stop, the Brina Cross inn," Crixus announced with a confident smile upon his face.

* * *

The land immediately north of the city was hill country, with sparse trees here and there. The signs of autumn were in the air, turning the leaves of the trees all shades of red, orange, brown and gold. This, in addition to the terracotta roofs behind them, gave the countryside a certain golden glow to it, which the coming sunset would illuminate to an even great extent. The three travelers took this in, especially Crixus: for him, it had been too long since he had been among such beautiful lands. The Dragontail Mountains were bleak, Mournhold was bleak and Skyrim was bleak; he longed for the vivid colors of his childhood home, of the bright green trees, verdant fields and clear blue skies that only Cyrodiil could offer.

Unfortunately, however, they had arrived in Anvil in autumn and the verdant greens and clear blues would soon be gone. Even now the threat of their leaving could be seen in the clouds clinging to the northern sky: summer was long gone, spent in warfare in the cold north.

The countryside was more or less peaceful as long as they were within sight of the Whitmond Farm. With sparse trees, there were few places, save for the rocks that dotted the land, where danger might be lurking. But they kept to the roads and, for the most part, escaped danger. By and by, the trees began to grow closer to the road, which was snaking around the western side of the hill just north of Whitmond Farm, hiding it from their view behind them. They rode on until the sun, as it was, sat directly over them. Here they decided to pause for a while and take a short meal. Crixus seemed rather pleased with the progress they had made in only two and a half hours, but also that he was as far from Anvil as possible. The memory of his sleep was starting to bother him.

While they were paused in the heat of the day, Petruvius and Crixus kept watch while Lethia dismounted from her horse and examined the fallen limbs and sticks around the base of the trees. Most of the branches, however, were short, bent and useless to her. With a frustrating groan, Lethia snapped the bent branch she was examining and turned to Crixus.

"Slaves, find me a suitable branch for a staff!" she ordered.

"Petruvius takes orders from no one but me," Crixus stated. "And I don't answer to being called a slave."

Lethia groaned. "Whatever, do you not wish to have me defended?"

"I plan on getting to the Brina Cross inn before nightfall," Crixus stated. "You can find your staff on your own time."

"Were you always this way, slave?" she asked. "A rude, insufferable nuisance?"

"I treat people the way they treat me," Crixus evasively replied. "So if you don't want to be treated like the arrogant self-entitled b*tch you seem to be, I suggest you stop calling me 'slave'."

"What do I call you, then?"

"Maybe my name?" he retorted. "My last name, if you please. Only family get to call me by my first name, and you'll never be family."

"Why not?" she asked. "You saved my life and, up until your arrival here, have been nothing but accommodating to me."

"I don't know," Crixus stated. "How things were in your little hive, or whatever you Falmer had, but things don't work that way in Cyrodiil."

"How _do_ they work, then?" she asked. "Since we'll be spending quite a bit of time here, I should like to know how the slaves behave in your world."

Crixus sighed. He had been away from Cyrodiil for so long, he knew more about the mainland Dunmer of Mournhold - and only a superficial knowledge of the Nords of Skyrim - than his own people and culture.

"The people of Cyrodiil are civilized and well-mannered," Crixus stated. "Our minds are open to learning and assimilating new ideas and new cultures. We have a great respect for the ideas of others. But, in our personal matters, we do not open our hearts to anyone. We are open publicly to everyone else as long as our private matters remain private."

"That sounds very contradictory, if you ask me," Lethia commented.

"Ha ha," Crixus chuckled. "You'll noticed I never asked you. Unlike you mer, we don't ostracize people based on their race. Hell, we don't even ostracize people of our own country just because they're Colovian or Nibenay."

Now it was Lethia's turn to laugh in mockery. "Do you have any idea how you sound?"

"And what the fuck does that mean?"

"You speak with all earnestness," Lethia replied. "About inclusiveness, assimilating and accepting, yet you cannot stand the Nord slaves."

"Because they are opposed to everything principle we believe in and support," Crixus replied. "Where we are civilized, they are backwards. Where we are well-mannered, they are savage. Where our minds are open to learning and new ideas and new cultures, they are unlearned and oppose anything beyond their own culture and their own simple, ignorant traditions. Whereas we are wisely reserved with our emotions, they wear their anger and rage on their chests, beating and thumping them and picking fights wherever possible. And whereas we are open and accepting of all races, Nords think that all non-Nord humans are weak 'milk-drinkers' and everyone else doesn't even belong in their precious little white country!"

"Sir..." Petruvius spoke up.

"I mean, yes," Crixus continued. "The Dunmer weren't very welcoming of us at first, but that can be understood. I mean, not all Dunmer are Redoran or Dres slavers. Some of them were more than willing to accept our way of life; our openness and yearning for new ideas."

"Sir!" Petruvius raised his voice. "Someone's coming."

"Where?" Crixus asked, turning about.

"Through the trees up ahead on the road," Petruvius stated.

"Draw your weapons," Lethia murmured, walking over to her horse.

"Relax, both of you," Crixus returned. "It's probably just a traveling merchant or county patrols. Remember, this is Cyrodiil! There are no bandit attacks here, nothing to fear on the roads." Crixus hopped onto Shadowmere's back and continued down the road, with Lethia and Petruvius following after him behind. From behind a tree out walked a Colovian man who looked like he had once been in the Legion: the way he walked, the way his body was built, his short cut hair, were the marks of one trained the same way he had been. Shadowmere neighed nervously beneath Crixus.

"Shh, it's okay," Crixus whispered, patting Shadowmere's black mane. "There's nothing to worry about." He then turned to the man, who was now standing in front of the road in their way. "Good day, sir!"

"Hello, there," the man greeted as the three horsemen came within spear's reach. He certainly seemed in good spirits with the cheeky grin on his face and the confident pose he struck, straddling the road before them.

"Would you mind giving the road to us?" Crixus asked. "We're in a hurry to get to Kvatch."

"Are you now?" the man asked. "Well, you see, that's a tall request, friend. You see, the Gold Road ain't exactly the safest place in the West Weald. The Dominion's right across the river, and there's dangerous men abroad these days; animal worshipers, daedric cultists, thieves, murderers."

"The local guards will keep the roads safe, friend," Crixus replied.

"The local guards have their hands full," the Colovian stated. "It's up to us to keep these here roads safe for the common folk."

"Us?" Crixus asked.

The man whistled and, from behind the trees all around them, several others appeared to surround them. Petruvius counted ten in all: four Imperials, not counting the one at the head of the road, two Khajiit, two Dunmer, an Orc and one Argonian. Both Lethia and Petruvius noted that all of them were armed: mostly with make-shift weapons or hunting tools such as spears, bows, wood-cutting axes or clubs with nails driven into the heads, but a few of them actually had swords.

Crixus chuckled. "What is this, a shake-down?"

"No, friend," the Colovian shook his head, all mirth vanishing from his face. "It's a robbery."

"Stand and deliver!" the Orc roared.

"You're violating Imperial law," Crixus stated. "Both by robbing us and by carrying weapons in public."

The Colovian spat on the ground at Shadowmere's hooves. "Then let the Emperor do something about it. You and your companions hand over them drakes double quick!"

"If you insist on fighting us," Crixus stated. "I should warn you of something." He reached onto his back and drew out the Nightingale Blade. Behind him Petruvius removed his shield from his back and his sword form his side.

"We're also armed."

"Get 'em, boys!" the Colovian shouted.

The bandits rushed towards the three horsemen. The stolen horse, not used to battle and terror, reared up on its hind legs, throwing Lethia off its back. Petruvius, however, had a little bit of equestrian skill and kept his own purchased horse from bucking in terror, while his sword knocked aside a spear that was coming his way from one of the Khajiit. Meanwhile, at the front of the group, Shadowmere had fearlessly charged through the lines and was now circling around the bandits; Crixus, with his sword out, was slicing throats and taking off limbs as he ringed them in from without. One Imperial fell from a slash to the back of his neck, one of the two Dunmer lost her left hand and the Orc had a nasty cut across his bare back. Another round he went, but the tree branches were low on this side and he had to keep his head low: Crixus managed to do little besides keep their weapons from striking Shadowmere. Around on the southern side he went, but this time the large Orc picked him up out of his saddle and threw him on the ground just as he had the little boy earlier that day. The massive, shirtless Orsimer lifted his wicked-looking ax above his head, when suddenly a shard of ice came whistling through the air, impaling him in the stomach. The Orc staggered back, then reached to take it out when another icy spike struck him in the chest again. Not wasting a moment, Crixus seized the Nightingale Sword, that had fallen from his hands when he was pulled out of his saddle, and ran the Orc through the heart.

But the others hadn't been idle while Crixus galloped about them. Though she had no weapon, Lethia was not wholly helpless. The Dunmer that tried to bash her head in with her spiked club soon lost her hand, and Lethia ended her life with a wave of lightning bolts from her hands. An Imperial attacked her, but, remembering Surius' gift, she took out the knife and drove it into his boot, piercing the hide and impaling his foot. So stunned, he was taken out by a thrust from behind by Petruvius' sword. The young man, now dismounted, was in the midst of them, fighting off two Imperials, the Argonian and the Khajiit with the spear. Unlike his master, Petruvius' training, both as a soldier of the Legion and as a knight errand - for he idolized the old stories of Cyrodilic chivalry, like Surius' two youngest children - kept him level-headed and focused during battles. The two Imperials attacked as one, while the Khajiit poked at Petruvius with his spear. The spear thrust he evaded by leaping aside, knocking the second Dunmer into the path of Crixus' horse as it came around the second time, trampling the one in its path as its own rider was plucked off its saddle. The two Imperials, after recovering, turned to charge him again, but this time he thrust forward, putting his shoulder into his shield rush. One was knocked clear off his feet, while the other staggered back: clearly the stronger of the two. A sudden piercing wound on his side alerted Petruvius that the Khajiit with the spear was still present. He turned around to face him, only in time to see the Argonian leaping towards him. Thinking fast, the young man fell to one knee, letting the larger Argonian trip over his back and pin the spear-head to the ground, which he then cut with his sword.

The Colovian gave a cry and suddenly the bandits fled back into the trees: four were dead, the rest were wounded or bruised. The Dunmer escaped last, for he had barely survived being crushed under Shadowmere's hooves. Of the three travelers, Crixus' back ached where the Orc threw him against a stone that had been in the road and Petruvius had a cut in his side from the Khajiit's spear, but they were otherwise unharmed. After calming down Lethia's horse, Crixus turned to examine his squire's wound while Lethia picked up the spear whose head had been riven from its staff.

"Are you alright?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, sir," Petruvius groaned. "It's just a flesh-wound. I've had worse from your friend Eirik."

"He's not my friend," Crixus said. It felt like a lie, especially considering they had parted on friendly terms, but he might as well be Sedris Ulver, or _her_, for as much as Crixus cared. There would be no deals made with the Grey Spirit, not while he lived.

"So much for safe and civilized," Lethia commented as she ran the spear-staff in her hands, gazing at it pensively.

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus repeated: his only argument when he had no reasonable retort. "They're just a few disgruntled people: most of them foreigners by the look of it. Not all Imperials are like that."

"We'll see the further inland we get," Lethia murmured, her eyes fixated on the staff.

* * *

The rest of that afternoon was spent on the road, eying the trees for assault. For the most part, nothing appeared; yet they could not shake the feeling of being watched as they drew nearer to the woods. Here and there they could see, just off the road, scarecrows set up within view. They were not scarecrows like those that farmers placed up, for there were no farms anywhere. Instead, the effigies had arms made of straw, the ribs of humans for a body and the skull of a beast for a head. They appeared like the totems of hag-ravens or the Reachmen, that marked their territory in the cold, hard lands of the North.

Crixus never expected to see such savage imagery in his own land.

Around late afternoon, they arrived at the Brina Cross town, which had grown around the old inn along the Gold Road. Riding up to the inn, they tied their horses to the hitching post and asked the proprietor, an Imperial, for one room for the three of them and food and drink for that evening. Petruvius and Lethia went into the common room for their tables while Crixus asked a few more questions of the proprietor. Once he was satisfied, he made his way towards the table hurriedly. He took his seat next to Petruvius and across from Lethia and then told them what he had learned.

"I asked about those things we saw in the trees just off the road," he began. "The innkeeper said they were totems of the animist cults. Apparently they live in the woods south of here, near Garlas Agea."

"What's that?" Lethia asked.

"An ancient Ayleid ruin," Crixus stated. "There are hundreds of those across Cyrodiil, just as there are Dwemer ruins between Hammerfell and Morrowind."

"Do not speak of the Dwemer!" Lethia snapped. "Blasphemers, murderers, traitors, apostates! Mer of the worst sort! Worse than slaves they are, may Auri-El curse them!"

"Why?" Crixus asked. "From all I've learned, the Dwemer were an advanced and intelligent race. If only more people sought out their ruins and tried to learn the secrets within, it could easily lead all of Tamriel into a golden age of learning and progress."

"Yet all that intelligence and advancement," Lethia retorted. "Did nothing to save them from the penalty for their blasphemies. Now they are all gone, and good riddance!" She then looked back at the staff she had carried away from the bandit raid.

"Why are you keeping that around?" Crixus asked.

"I want to use it," she answered. "Perhaps it will serve as a staff for the present."

"It's broken," Crixus stated. "And there's no magic in it."

"You wouldn't know," she retorted. "You human slaves do not have the comprehension of magicka the way mer do."

"Uh, sir," Petruvius interjected after a lull in the conversation. "Did you learn anything else?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Crixus continued. "There are rumors that the plague has spread as far west as Skingrad. We would do well to be wary, the farther east we go."

"What exactly _is_ this plague?" Lethia queried.

"I don't know," Crixus sighed. "And I don't like not knowing. Nobody can give me any information on this plague, only rumors, speculation. And you know how those can be around here."

"Rumors?" a man in Legion garb asked from the other table. "There's something unnatural about that plague. I've heard it struck Leyawiin, Cheydinhal and, as you've heard rightly, stranger, Skingrad."

"So?" Crixus asked. "What's unnatural about that?"

"There's no reports of the plague in the Imperial City," he stated. "See, I should know. I was there in the Lower City during the War, part of the 8th Legion. We had it as bad as the 9th Legion, keeping back the Dominion forces while the Emperor fled for his great feint. And for our great sacrifice, what happened? We were all annihilated, almost to a man!"

"You shouldn't dishonor the name of the Emperor," Crixus stated. "That's treason."

"It's the truth," the soldier stated. "I gave my life for the Emperor, and what he did in return was abandon the city."

"But history proved him right," Crixus replied. "He called the Dominion on their bluff and took the city back."

"Yeah? And then what did he do, huh?" asked the soldier. "Signed that damn Concordant to make us all slaves to the elves in all but name."

"You would have preferred us all to die by elvish swords, then?" Crixus asked.

"If you really believe that," the soldier muttered. "You've never known what it was like, during the War."

"Is that right, arse-hole?" Crixus retorted, rising up from the table and turning to the man. "Well, I'll have you know that _I_ was in the Legion, the bloody 9th Legion! We fought and lost..."

"And did the only sensible thing," the soldier added. "But instead, you were betrayed. You shouldn't be fighting me, friend."

"Don't call me friend," Crixus retorted. "Not the way you're slandering the Emperor."

"He starts a war in Skyrim," the soldier stated. "Just to prove that the Empire's still strong, while all the while the real enemy is just across the Strid River. And what does he do about _that_ enemy, the real enemy? Nothing! He takes troops away, but sends them to guard his precious Elder Council. Have you even seen what the camps on the Strid look like? They're so poorly manned, under-equipped and in such shambles, a child could walk through."

"You speak treason," Crixus stated. "Against our beloved Emperor, and I won't have it."

"What are you gonna do about it, huh?" the soldier asked, rising up from where he sat. For an Imperial, he was taller than Crixus and had broader shoulders. Crixus threw the first punch, which the soldier took on the face and seemed to shrug it off as if it were nothing. The next blow he dodged, then the third one he seized Crixus' hand in his fist and punched him in the face with it. Again he struck Crixus in the face and a third time, until he could feel hot blood trickling down into his mouth. A kick to the chest knocked him back into the table, which, thankfully, held not their food.

"Just as I thought," the soldier grumbled, wiping Crixus' blood off his hands. "You're weak, just like the Emperor."

"Coward!" Crixus spat. "White Nord scum!"

At this, one of the nearby patrons, a Nord, burst into laughter at Crixus' statement. The soldier, meanwhile, gave Crixus a swift kick in the stomach, doubling him over.

"That's all you can do, isn't it?" the soldier retorted. "Bark and cry like a b*tch." He spat on Crixus' fallen form, then returned to his table.

Not since he had been beat by Legion soldiers in the streets of Whiterun, in broad daylight, had Crixus felt so embarrassed or abased as he was now. Thankfully, he would not be staying here for an extended period of time and he kept his head down as he crawled back to the table.

"Such friendly, welcoming people," Lethia commented with a cheeky grin.

"Shut the fu..." Crixus gasped, then wiped the blood away from his nose and lips. He wanted to say something, to silence her pale blue, lying lips: but she was not lying, he knew this to be true. He had been away from Cyrodiil for longer than he had lived there. Maybe something _had_ changed? But the idea that it had become as he believed Skyrim to be..._Gods, spare me that!_ he wept inwardly as he buried his face in his hands and threw his hood over his head.

* * *

**(AN: A big theme in this story would probably be belief. Crixus' refrain in the stories set in Skyrim was that the Nords are a backwards people, Skyrim is a savage, dangerous country and the Imperials are civilized and cultured and Cyrodiil is a cultured and civilized country [and the Imperials have the burden to civilize the Nords]. But what he experiences while coming back to Cyrodiil is the opposite: that the people of Cyrodiil have forsaken "civilization" and "higher" culture and their country has become just as dangerous [if not more since, unlike Skyrim, Cyrodiil actually borders the satellite countries of the Aldmeri Dominion]. The belief aspect comes from what Crixus' reaction will be: will he accept the truth or choose to remain deluded?)  
**

**(On a less esoteric note, in retrospect, it really bothered me how small i made Skyrim in my previous stories. The idea was to make travel chapters less time-spending both for the story and for me, but that also made the land ridiculously small as a consequence. Since i'm obviously devoting more than ample time to my chapters [most of the ones in the first seven have clocked at 8000 words apiece], as well as no immediately pressing issues and a desire to show more [remember, this is unlike _Skyrim_ in that i have to rebuild Cyrodiil from how it was in _Oblivion_], i can stretch the travel times out a bit more.)**


	9. The City That Endures

**(AN: Your review, _WarWizard_, was impeccably timed. Thank you very much: you've given me much food for thought. Whether or not the culture of Cyrodiil will be based on that of Byzantium [my brother would want it to be based on traditional medieval culture with a mix of creole: nothing Roman whatsoever], remains to be seen.)**

**(This will be the very first time that most of you will have seen a rebuilt Kvatch as, apparently, the city is in ruins by the time you reach there in _Oblivion_. My version is not based on any mods that recreate the city, only the basic structure of the ruins and what may have been there based on what might be built there over two hundred years ago. Also, unlike Anvil, things won't just be handed to Crixus: he'll have to work for an audience with the Count, but he'll also find some rather interesting things going on in the immediate area.)**

* * *

**The City That Endures**

Over two hundred years ago, during the Oblivion Crisis, the city of Kvatch had been all but destroyed by hordes of rampaging daedra. For several years it remained a ghost town, until, at last, Savlian Matius, who had become captain of the city guard during its destruction, led a group of survivors in the decades long task of rebuilding the city. For his efforts, the people of Kvatch sent a message to the Elder Council, demanding that he be made their Count. The next century saw relative peace in Kvatch, as the city recovered from the Stormcrown Interregnum and, true to its motto, endured every storm and rebuilt after every destruction. Then the War came and, when the Dominion seized control of the Wealdan counties, Kvatch, though it had been overlooked at first, was sacked. Varus Matius, the last Matian Count of Kvatch, was killed in the streets with the city garrison, defending his people against the Dominion forces. In the aftermath of the War, a man by the name of Brachus Romulus took control of Kvatch and proclaimed himself Count.

This was a little bit of the history of Kvatch as far as Servius Crixus heard from those who were willing to talk, both at the Brina Cross and, further down the road, the Gottshaw Inns. They told him a few of the rumors they had heard about this Brachus Romulus, the Count of Kvatch. He bore no love for the Merchants Guild and was engaged in what appeared to be a trade war with them concerning tariffs. The people bore little love for him, but few were willing or even able to oppose him. They were not willing because he had re-opened the Kvatch Arena: destroyed during the Oblivion Crisis, it had seen greater or lesser activity in the centuries afterwards - mostly in favor of the Imperial Arena in the Capital. While this did not make Count Romulus immediately popular, it made most of the people unwilling to oppose him for love of violent sport. Furthermore, they were not able because few dared to cross him since he had gotten the services of one Publius Varro to act as his chancellor and steward.

"Blaspheme the Divines," they told him. "Slander the Emperor, the Elder Council, the Dominion, desecrate the bones of your own ancestors, if you like, but you'd be a fool to cross Varro."

As far as Crixus could gather on this Varro fellow, he had been champion of the Kvatch Arena for nine years, gaining the favor of the Count until he was made chancellor. Though it seemed beyond belief that a gladiator could possibly be a competent administrator, Varro quickly developed a reputation for efficiency and ruthlessness. In both inns, Crixus had been reminded not to cross Publius Varro unless he had a death wish.

So it was that, on the third day of their departure from Anvil, the three travelers were clearing through the trees that had thickened along the road. Less than half a mile from the door of the Gottshaw Inn, the trees cleared and they could see the high hill upon which the city of Kvatch was built. Though most of the walls on the southern side of the city had been torn down during the War, the stones on the western and northern sides were from the Third Era city. The newer walls were brighter and less shambled than the older walls; but, as one's eye was drawn towards the shining new walls, their attention was also brought to the line of people snaking their way up the path leading to the city gates.

The bell from the Chapel of Akatosh in the city tolled the hour of eleven as they approached the long line of refugees. There were a great many upon the road, or gathered along it in make-shift huts and tents. A thick column of people, pressed together so that no man, woman or child might get through them, were gathered upon the road winding up the hill to the gates of the city, and many others had forsaken the road altogether and were trying to clamber up the hill off the road.

"Who are all these people?" Petruvius asked.

Crixus said nothing as he spurred Shadowmere up the side of the hill past the throngs of refugees. Behind him Petruvius and Lethia reluctantly rode after him, apparently heedless of the cries of those around them. At last they arrived at the southern gate of Kvatch, where a detachment of soldiers were standing guard. Unlike the soldiers of Anvil, these were dressed in scale lamellar cuirasses with sable tabards upon their chests, depicting the image of the wolf, and steel helmets made in the style of the Legion. As the travelers approached the gates, which Crixus saw were closed, several of the guards, including a bald one with a short, neatly-trimmed beard who seemed to be the captain, came up in front of their horses. The captain held out his gloved hand in a sign of stopping.

"The city is closed," the captain stated. "Count's orders."

"Closed?" Crixus asked. "What do you mean it's closed? We came all the way from Anvil..."

"I don't care if you came all the way from Akavir," the captain replied rudely. "You ain't gettin' inside the city. It's sealed up in response to the plague."

"I have here," Crixus replied. "A letter from the Lord Mayor of the Anvil chapter of the Merchants Guild." He removed from his bosom Signius' letter and presented it to the guards. Without so much as looking at it, the guard laughed and threw it on the ground.

"You again, eh?" he laughed. "Didn't learn your lesson yet? What, did you really expect that I'd just _let_ you back in?"

"But I..."

"No no no," the guard shook his head. "Nobody gets into Kvatch without the signed permission of the Count himself: and no one _at all_ gets in who's in league with the Merchants Guild. Now piss off! We've had enough of you greedy drake-mongers in Cyrodiil! Divines take you all!"

After being dismissed, Crixus turned his attention to the letter on the ground. Dismounting, he knelt down to pick it up. But no sooner had he arisen when an Imperial man with short hair was standing before him: Crixus recognized the gold amulet with the scales upon his neck.

"You want to get inside Kvatch, friend?" he asked.

"Who's asking?" Crixus replied.

"Not here," he muttered. "Meet me at the bottom of the hill in one hour, outside of Dasek Moor."

Crixus nodded: at the Gottshaw Inn, he had been given directions for the rest of his journey. About two or three miles south of the inn, the road would fork: the left-hand path would lead to Kvatch while the right-hand path would continue on towards Skingrad, passing by the border fort of Dasek Moor. Finding it should not be a problem, he mused.

He mounted up again and the three of them went back down the hill, turning back west down the road until it reached the fork. There they took the path to the right and backtracked until they were come upon a point where the woods began to grow thicker again. Just off to the right they could see the ruins of the fort, with the Red Diamond banner of the Empire flying from its towers.

"There it is," Crixus stated.

"It's in a sorry state," Petruvius added. "If there _is_ a garrison here, why aren't they rebuilding the walls? I can't tell, sir, my eyes aren't as good as yours. Look on the walls and tell me if you see any sentries."

"No," Crixus sighed. "No sentries."

"It's a disgrace," Petruvius grumbled.

"I'm sure they have good reasons to be relaxed in their vigilance," Crixus replied. "Most likely some kind of holiday I don't know about."

"The Legion soldiers aren't like this," Petruvius shook his head. "They shouldn't be like this."

"It's only one fort," Crixus stated. He then reached into his bosom and examined their map. "According to the map, there are at least two more forts before the end of the Strid River."

"Why are you making excuses, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Why are _you_ questioning me, squire?" Crixus retorted. "And you too, Lethia. Didn't you say you would submit to my counsel?"

"You haven't given any counsel as of yet," she replied, a cheeky grin on her face. "Only insults and blows."

"And I have plenty of both for you," Crixus threatened. "And you, Petruvius, you should know better than to question the Legion."

"You know I'm loyal, sir," Petruvius replied. "I would never do anything to dishonor my oath to the Legion and the Emperor. And it is because of those oaths that I ask why this fort is in ruins! Are we not on the edge of the Dominion's puppet state of Valenwood? Why would the garrison relax their vigil?"

"Careful, my dear Silenius," Crixus spoke, using his squire's first name, which he rarely did. "What you say is treason."

Just then the sounds of a horse galloping towards them could be heard. They saw the man Crixus had met inside the city gallop towards them, then dismount from off his horse and address them.

"Let me see that letter, friend," he said, holding his hand out to Crixus. "Don't worry, I'm not a robber. I saw his seal, I know you have the favor of Lord Mayor Signius."

Crixus reluctantly handed the letter to the man, who opened it up and examined it. He then handed the letter back to Crixus.

"Lord Mayor Thwyndilion will be most pleased to see this," he said. "I should have you into the city at once."

"But how?" Crixus asked. "You heard the guards, no one's allowed inside."

"Correction, my friend," the man replied. "No refugees are allowed inside. Since usually there's no way of telling which is a refugee pretending to be a citizen of Kvatch, no one is allowed in or out of the city without an invitation. Fortunately..." He walked over to the horse and removed from his saddle-bag a scroll tied with a black ribbon. "...I just so happen to have a letter of invitation from Varro's friend and organizer of arena fights, Zeno Platorius."

"You mean you stole a letter?" Crixus asked. "Or you forged one?"

"No, it's genuine," the man replied, holding the letter up. "See? There is Platorius' seal on the letter." The seal was a shield with two crossed swords beneath it: almost reminiscent of the emblem of either the Fighters Guild or the Thieves Guild.

"I've heard about Varro," Crixus stated. "I've heard that he's not one to be trifled with, and yet here you are just giving out invitations from one of his friends?"

"That's what I do," the man replied. "I work for Lord Mayor Thwyndilion to procure safe passage for..._very_ important personnel into Kvatch right under the Count's nose. Eddard Perrick is my name."

"Do you think that's wise, Master Perrick?" Crixus asked. "Giving away your name and occupation to a complete stranger?"

"The Count can believe that he has power in Kvatch all he wants," Eddard replied with a tone of disapproval. "But the Merchants Guild will not be denied. As for myself, the Lord Mayor of Kvatch has very powerful, and dangerous, friends. Friends who can dispatch those who threaten Guild activity in this city." With that, his face brightened up. "Now, then, it's time to enter the great city of Kvatch, eh?"

* * *

With the new letter in hand, Crixus and his company made their way back up the hill and up to the gates. The captain stopped them, but upon seeing the letter from Platorius, his demeanor changed immediately.

"Why didn't you say so right off?" he asked, a nervous chuckle on his lips. "Would have saved quite a bit of trouble for all of us." He then handed the letter back to Crixus. "Yes, well, I'll have the gates open for you. Wouldn't want to keep a friend of Publius Varro waiting, now, would I?" The three horses trotted up to the gate, but once again the captain stood to block their path.

"One small thing, first, good sirs," the captain said, an uneasy smile on his face. "I must ask that you surrender your weapons here at the city gates."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Imperial law, friend," the captain replied. "No man, woman, mer or beast-folk is allowed to carry weapons within the limits of any city, be it as small as a knife. It's been that way for nigh on fifteen years: where have you been?"

"I know the law," Crixus grumbled. "But I am in haste!"

"And I am in a very dangerous position," the captain admitted. "Either you surrender your weapons or I'll have to keep you here at the gates. Then you and I can both explain to Platorius and Publius Varro why you weren't ushered in with haste."

"Sir," Petruvius spoke up. "If we are in haste indeed, surely we can make an exception here?"

Crixus scowled as he removed his baldric, then his belt, with all of the knives in it. Then he added the Bow of Nocturnal and his Nightingale Blade, warning them not to disturb his gear.

"My weapon is...special," Crixus stated. "And what I have in my pouches is for my eyes only."

"You can be sure," the captain said, holding up his hands dismissively. "That no hand will touch your gear."

"Petruvius, Lethia," Crixus called back. "Give them your weapons."

The young squire was more willing to comply to the rule, but Lethia, who hung to the back, hooded, veiled and gloved to conceal her true form, was reluctant to reveal herself. Petruvius offered to transfer her knife and staff to the guards, but she shook her head.

"What about..."

"We'll talk about that later," Crixus whispered. "Now just do it! You're drawing suspicion!"

Lethia reluctantly surrendered staff and dagger to Petruvius, who gave them to the captain of the guards. True to her fear, the captain and the guards looked at the staff with caution and suspicion: it was as if they were handling a knife surrendered willfully from a known criminal. The captain gave the weapons to one of his soldiers, gave a cry for his men to form ranks, then ushered Crixus and his companions behind the guards. As if knowing that the gates were about to be opened, the crowd of refugees came running towards the gates, begging, yelling, screaming and crying to be let in. The press around the guards was so dense that they began to be pushed back. The captain ordered his men to keep the people back, using force if necessary. Crixus saw several people kicked, wounded by sword-thrusts or trampled by their fellows.

"The gate!" the captain shouted over the din. "Open the gate, quick!"

Crixus and his companions, aware of the situation, had their horses turned towards the city gates. As soon as the heavy iron portcullis was withdrawn, the inner wooden doors were pulled back by unseen guards and the three galloped inside as quickly as possible, with the soldier bearing their weapons running after them. Crixus chanced to cast his eyes behind him and saw the doors being closed and, beyond, the crowds still mobbing the guards to get inside the city. Before turning away, he saw the guard pass into the gatehouse with their weapons and was not seen again.

"Who are all these people?" Lethia asked, once the gates were closed and there was a high stone wall between them and the mob.

"Refugees from Skingrad," Crixus explained. "Remember what we heard in the last inn?"

"The plague," Petruvius muttered warily. "But why wouldn't the Count open his gates to them?"

"That is for the Count to decide, not us," Crixus replied. "Now, then, let's find ourselves the inn I've heard so much about: the Hero's Welcome."

The Hero's Welcome was not hard to find. Immediately to the left of the gates they found the stables, where Crixus asked about the tavern in question. As luck would have it, the inn was right next-door to the stables. The stable-boy directed them to a long, two-story building in an L-shape with another two story house cradled in the crook of the L. That, he said, was the Hero's Welcome, within sight of the Hero's Statue in the city square. After shelling out a few septims for the stabling of the horses, the three of them went into the inn. It was still early in the day and, though they had no need of lodging right now, they wanted to have their rooms ready for them that night.

Over the door of the Hero's Welcome was the image of an Argonian in full knightly regalia, brandishing sword and shield bravely. Inside, they found the proprietress, an Imperial woman, behind the counter. When they told her that they were going to be staying here, a smile appeared on her face and she became, at least to Crixus, strangely welcoming.

"We haven't gotten many visitors to Kvatch lately, what with the plague and all," she stated. "This used to be the most prestigious inn in all of Kvatch. If only the Count would open the city gates again, we'd have more business and he'd have more tax money and everyone would be happier for it."

"Hmm," Crixus nodded. "Prestigious, you say?"

"Oh, yes," she replied. "The foundation stones of this inn were made from the stones of the old city, what was left of it after the Oblivion Crisis. Local legend says that St. Anhild herself carved words on one of the stones, though it's never been found. But there are other stories about this place: Attrebus Mede carved his initials on one of the tables in the common room."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "The first Medan Emperor?"

"Oh, he wasn't Emperor at that time," she replied. "But, as the name implies, this tavern used to be one frequented by adventurers, self-styled heroes, and those who would eventually go on to do great things themselves. It has quite a bit of history, as I've already told you."

"Right," Crixus replied. "Well, we certainly look forward to sampling some of that history. But, for the present, we'll just have the rooms."

"As you wish, stranger," the innkeeper answered with a grin.

Crixus paid the fare for one room for three - they never slept in separate rooms for fear of discovery, especially concerning Lethia - then the innkeeper, who gave her name as Flavia, gave Crixus the key and told him that if there was anything else he might need or want, to let her know. Her house, she added, was the one on the other side of the inn's courtyard: the house in the crook of the L, as it were.

"Why do you stay there and not at the inn?" Crixus asked.

"It's my family's house," she replied. "Built centuries ago, renovated over the years. Haven't got the heart to tear it down. It's not because I think I'm above my customers, you know. It's just a family thing."

Crixus nodded but said nothing else.

"If I may," Petruvius interjected. Crixus nodded, then the young man addressed Flavia. "My lady, what can you tell us about the city?"

"Anything you want, young man," she replied with a flirtatious smile.

"Anything of interest?" he asked.

"There's the statue in the city square, just north of here," Flavia continued. "If fighting is more of your thing, there's the Fighters Guild hall on the eastern side, with the Arena just next door of that. I'm not much of a church-goer, but if that's your thing, the Chapel of Akatosh, one of the oldest sites in the city, is across the street from here."

Petruvius thanked Flavia, then followed after Crixus and Lethia, who were already on their way out of the inn.

"You should have shown her your letter," Petruvius said to Crixus after catching up with him.

"Which one?" Crixus replied in jest.

"The one that got us in," he returned.

"That one is not for her," Crixus stated. "And the other one I'm also not sure about. I wonder if what Perrick said was true, and that, despite being evicted, there are still Merchants Guild members in the city."

"How would you go about seeking them out, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"We'll find that out soon enough," Crixus answered.

For the present, he was making a path for the Hero's Statue in the center of the city. He had heard rumors about the statue - such rumors that even Eirik, who had lived in Bruma and never come this far south, had heard - and wanted to see it for himself. The city square was crowded with people, many of whom spoke to each other in hushed, worried whispers: they spoke as if in fear that some greater power were listening to their every word. For the present, Crixus gave this no heed as he carried on to the Hero's Statue.

It stood atop a round dais of stone, depicting a knight of indiscriminate race or gender standing tall and proud, a shield in one hand and a sword held up defiantly to the heavens. At the bottom of the dais, along the circumference of its edge, there had been some writing. It was old and some of the letters appeared to have been deliberately scratched out. But enough remained so that its initial message could be seen.

_Let those who threaten the peace and safety and people of Kvatch  
Be aware: our courage and spirit forevermore shall be on watch_

"Sounds like some kind of Nord rhyme," Crixus mocked derisively.

"Look, sir," Petruvius noted. "Over here, there's a plaque before the statue."

Crixus came to where Petruvius stood, on the side of the statue that faced the castle of Kvatch. Here there was a stone pillar erected, newer and cleaner than the dais and without any of the scratches and scars upon it. Upon said pillar was a bronze plaque with shiny new words that could be easily read.

_This statue was first dedicated to the courage and spirit of Antus Pinder, who fell defending the city from outnumbering odds. In 4E 100, the original statue was removed and a new one erected on this spot and dedicated to the Hero of Kvatch, whose face, sex and origin are known but to the Divines. At the end of the Great War, it was decided that the statue should be rededicated to the memory of Varus Matius, who, like the original dedicate, was slain defending the city from an overwhelming force. At the behest of the current lord and Count of Anvil, Brachus Romulus, it has remained untouched, dedicated instead to the undying, courageous spirit of the people of Kvatch._

"Damn whoever removed the original statue," Crixus muttered, his lips quivering in wrath. "It's like someone up there is trying to erase the history of my beloved country!"

"Don't be dramatic, sir," Petruvius interjected. "It wasn't that bad. I mean, if they wanted to erase the history, they wouldn't have left the statue up at all."

"Seems like a poor dedication," Lethia muttered. "A statue given to honor a man who failed."

"You know nothing, stupid elf!" Crixus retorted. "It's not about that Pinder was defeated, but that he chose to fight on against overwhelming odds."

"That sounds like the Nord heroes to me, sir," Petruvius stated.

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus sneered.

"Actually, he does have a point," stated Lethia.

"No, he doesn't," Crixus replied, annoyance building in his voice. "_Our_ civilized, Colovian heroes are nothing like what the barbarians in the North call 'heroes.' Our heroes fight for honor, devotion and duty, to protect the innocent and defend the helpless. The mongrels of Skyrim fight to take what doesn't belong to them, to win personal fame, women, gold and a richer reward in sovereign-guard: as they have done ever since their misbegotten race blighted this land with their presence. Those heathens love death as much as we love life."

"If you say so," Lethia replied with a condescending, knowing tone.

"I _do_ say so," Crixus retorted. "And while I'm here, there will be no mocking my peoples' heroes, or comparing them in any way to Nords. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius sighed, hanging his head.

"Lethia?"

"As I said," she replied with a cheeky grin. "I will abide by your counsel."

"Good," he returned. "Now, let's seek out this Zeno Platorius."

"If I may ask, sir," Petruvius replied. "Why are we seeking him out? Should we not go back to the inn and ask if our ravens have arrived?"

"Doubtless they haven't arrived yet," Crixus answered. "But I've been looking through this letter." He presented them the letter which Perrick had given him. Inside it read: '_The bearer of this letter, and those accompanying, has the permission of the undersigned to enter the City of Kvatch for the purposes of the Arena._' Below were three signatures: His Highness Brachus Romulus Count of Kvatch, His Excellency Publius Varro and Zeno Platorius, Master of the Kvatch Arena.

"It was an old tradition, I heard," Crixus stated. "Where there would be gladiator fights in every city in Tamriel. Every province had one: hell, I think I even saw one by the Grey Quarter in Windhelm once. I'm intrigued: I want to know more about the Arena."

"What about our plan for the new Mages Guild?" asked Petruvius.

"I haven't forgotten that," Crixus replied. "But for the present, it'll have to wait."

* * *

The Arena was easier to find than Crixus had expected. From the statue they went eastward until they heard the sounds of cheering. Within minutes, over the tops of the triangular roofs, the Arena appeared. Loud roars rose up to greet them as they approached the great entrance, where many people were milling into the ring. Two city guards in sable over lamellar scale-mail stood at the gates, keeping watch over all those who came into the Arena. Before these Crixus halted and presented the letter that Perrick had given him.

"You're late," the guard said, handing the letter back to Crixus. "The fight's already started. Platorius is in his personal box on the upper level, observing the fight. Should be easy to find him. Show the guards this letter and they'll let you through."

Crixus and the others turned left and followed up a line of stairs that led to the third floor of the Arena. Stepping out of the alcove, Crixus saw a personal observing box where several rich-looking people were observing the fight. The three of them made their way through the upper gallery of seats over to said box. It was clear to anyone that the seats up here were for those who could afford the best seats in the Arena, for many were dressed in finery, with gold in their robes, circlets upon their heads and rings on their fingers. As Crixus approached the personal box, two more guards moved to block their path. Crixus showed them the letter, which one of them took back to a man seated at the chair in the center of the box. He was dressed almost as if he were the Count himself, with a black robe hemmed with gold and a cloak studded with gold and gem-stones which clung to his shoulders like armor.

Upon receiving the letter, the rich man read it over, then waved to his guard with his right hand. The guard saluted in the Imperial fashion - a fist pounded against the chest, then extended with open palm outward - then walked back to where Crixus, Petruvius and Lethia were waiting.

"Platorius will speak to you," the guard told them.

Crixus walked forward first, with the others hanging behind the guard who had stopped them. Crixus turned back and nodded to them, then continued on his way towards where the rich man was seated. The guard who had presented him then announced his presence as a momentary lull fell upon the crowd. The rich man rose from his seat and turned to Crixus.

"Ah, there you are, my friend," he greeted. "It's good that Perrick's connections came through this time." He gestured for a servant to bring a chair to his left-hand side for Crixus. Once the chair - made of black true ebony inlaid with gold - was placed down, Crixus sat in it and looked around while the rich man returned to his seat. At his right was a beautiful Redguard, but apart from a few more guards, there weren't many others in the box.

"Zeno Platorius, I presume?" Crixus asked.

"True that," the rich man replied with a grin on his face. "I'm the organizer of fights in the Kvatch Arena, and your only friend in this city."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," Platorius continued. "You see, Varro is a friend of mine and he and the Count go way back. But, as close as we are, we do disagree a bit when it comes to politics. While business has never been bad since the Count re-opened the Arena, business would be much better if the city were not on lock-down."

"Business?" Crixus asked. "You spoke of Perrick a moment ago. Are you with the Merchants Guild?"

"Me? I organize fights in the Arena," Platorius replied. "I don't meddle in the affairs of any Guild."

"So why are you working with them?" Crixus asked.

"Not yet, my friend," Platorius dismissed. "First we drink, then we watch the fight, then we talk business." He ordered his servant to bring him a bottle of Surilie Brothers 180, then directed Crixus' attention to the pit below. In the Arena, a Bosmer was fighting with a thing that appeared to be a giant wearing a bull's head. The crowds chanted the name "_Drogon! Drogon! Drogon!_" over and over, until it was the only thing outside of the box that Crixus' keen ears could perceive.

"Which one is Drogon, Master Platorius?" Crixus asked.

"The large one," he replied, pointing to the one wearing the bull's head. "He's a favorite in the Arena: never lost a match. I have big plans for him: if I can get the lock-down lifted, maybe I can take him to the Great Arena in the Imperial City." He chuckled and licked his lips. "Oh, think of the money a man like me could make there!"

"I see," Crixus nodded. "So is there a reason why your gladiators are allowed to have weapons, even though the law bans weapons in the city?"

"For the common folk, yes," Platorius began. "But there is one thing you should understand, friend: the Imperial spirit is overrated. People in Cyrodiil claim to be welcoming and accepting of all races, creeds and cultures, and that's just fine for the politicians, the counts, the Elder Council and the Emperor. But I know the common man: they like to see blood and violence, just as long as it's not their blood being spilled. For many, the Arenas have been a sort of escape, a way to feel powerful and victorious in a grim, sorry state where victory has no true meaning."

"A rather cynical opinion, Master Platorius," Crixus noted.

"I'm a man, not a priest," Platorius replied. "As such, I have tastes like any other man: tastes for wine, food, women and money. And through that, I've been able to see many people at their basest. Your average man, he doesn't care about politics or cosmopolitanism: he wants to know that he has food on his table, a woman to share his bed, and that victory is his."

"But didn't you just say that victory has no meaning?" Crixus asked.

"For those of us who are wise, my friend," Platorius continued. "The average man still believes that victory can be achieved when the faceless, heartless 'they' is defeated. The Arena gives them this solace, especially as close as we are to the Strid River."

"Are you telling me that you believe we _lost_ the Great War?" Crixus divined.

Platorius' blue eyes flashed back to Crixus. "You're a man of quick wit. You'll bring us a fortune, my friend."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Master," Crixus replied. "Answer me truthfully."

"Only a naive person actually believes we won the War," Platorius answered grimly. "I was one of the few people who was alive and politically aware from the beginning of the War to its end. The Dominion got what they wanted with the White-Gold Concordant. Of course, if the people ever found out about this, we'd have as much trouble on our hands as with the Nords in Skyrim. These fights are a necessary evil, and a means of great profit: how can I refuse?"

"You sound like you enjoy this," Crixus muttered.

"I don't agree with the Placators," Platorius stated. "But what they do and what we do is more or less the same: convincing the people that everything is alright. The only difference is that they do it to pander to our conquerors, while what I do is a public service to keep the peace and the people satisfied and loyal."

"Doesn't seem to have hurt you," Crixus noted.

Platorius chuckled. "You don't seem like a man who would not enjoy my situation also. We're going to get along just fine."

"And what exactly will we be doing?" Crixus asked. "I received your writ of passage, but the letter was stolen from me by bandits on the road here from Anvil."

"I have a bit of a plan here," Platorius stated. "One that will be mutually beneficial to all parties involved."

"What is that?" Crixus asked again.

"You are going to bet on the fights," Platorius began. "As Drogon is undefeated, it will be easy money. Once my old friend Publius sees the kind of money this will bring in, we will be in a position to have the lock-down ended. This will, of course, mean more business for me and, in addition, more business for the Count and Varro and, maybe, with the right kind of exposure, a shot at playing in the Great Arena in the Capital!"

At this, he rose up in cheer with the crowds as Drogon hacked the Bosmer down. The little wood elf lay bleeding on the floor of the arena while Drogon held up his arms victoriously, awaiting the fate of his quarry from the audience. Cries of "Kill!" were chanted over and over, along with hands held out at arm's length with the thumbs down: for Servius Crixus, it was a little discomforting to see his people as blood-thirsty as he believed Nords to be. Platorius rose from his seat, held out his hand and gave the thumbs down. With a loud roar, Drogon below brought his battle-ax down upon the Bosmer's throat, severing his head. After imbedding the ax in the ground, the massive fighter picked up the head and held it up to the wild cheering of the crowds.

"Mark my words, friend," Platorius said to Crixus. "This city endures because we provide something that all people need: the bloody sport of the Arena. And you will show Varro and the Count just how useful this can be."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked.

"That's the reason I brought you here, after all," Platorius replied. "Varro and I are the richest men in Kvatch, since the Merchants Guild was evicted. The Surilie Brothers..." He held out his cup to be refilled by his servant. "...well, they're too busy running Skingrad and all of its problems, plagues and whatnot to be bothered investing in something as 'trivial' as a gladiator arena. That's why I sought out capital from outside of the area."

"By going through the Merchants Guild?" Crixus asked.

"I don't have the same qualms as the Count has with the Guild," Platorius continued. "Tariffs and taxes mean nothing to me, for my fortune comes from the sands of the arena. They are a means to an end..." He winked from over the top of his cup as he drank again. "...a very profitable end, one that will see your own fortunes rise as well."

"I see," Crixus nodded, taking his first sip of the Surilie Brothers wine. It went down warm and bitter, with a hint of oak as it slid down the back of his throat.

* * *

**(AN: The burden is on me to make a unique introduction for each of the cities Crixus will visit. As it is, he had to get into Kvatch with help from an agent of the Merchants Guild and is there somewhat in secret. It is also here that we will meet one of our first supporting characters.)**

**(Interesting stuff happening here, like Crixus' comment about "erasing the history of my people" being a shout-out to my brother's complaints about _Skyrim_ allegedly erasing everything that _Morrowind_ and _Oblivion_ created [yeah, for him, the passage of two hundred years shouldn't have changed anything in Tamriel besides bringing in 16th century technology] as well as an ironic statement, since Crixus has no problem erasing or rewriting the history of the Nords "for the greater good".)**


	10. Attack on the Inn

**(AN: Wow, that last chapter was remarkably shorter than usual. Don't worry, we'll be back up to 8000 in no time! Also, since it has probably been years since you last heard of them, i will go into detail about who the Placators are: they feature significantly into this story.)**

**(Please, review! Tell me that Kvatch is boring and plodding and nothing is happening. I need the critiques as well as the nice reviews, they keep me honest.)**

* * *

**Attack on the Inn  
**

Crixus left the Arena, taking his two companions with him, and went back to the Hero's Welcome, where they ate a heart meal and enjoyed good wine. Ever and anon, however, Crixus noticed that Flavia would come to their table to ask them if they had everything they needed: each time she spoke to Crixus, also, she would bend over, allowing her low-cut dress to give Crixus a peak at her ample bosom. For the first and second time, they made nothing of it and continued their talk about what Crixus and Zeno Platorius had talked about in the Arena.

"Some kind of far-fetched scheme to get the city opened," Crixus stated. "Something about me betting on fights in the arena."

"Well?" Petruvius asked. "Are you going to?"

"I still would like to speak to the head of the Fighters Guild," Crixus replied. "While we're here, there should be a way of getting an introductory letter written from the head of the Kvatch chapter. Still, if this Drogon is as good as Platorius said he was, maybe there could be some easy money made here. Might even be able to get an audience with the Count."

"But what about our...other aims?" Petruvius whispered. "You know..."

"I'll ask the proprietress when she comes back," Crixus stated. "See if our letters have come through."

"So which one should we focus on primarily?" Petruvius asked.

"Well, what do you all think?" Crixus asked. "You too, Lethia, you've been rather quiet through all of this."

"Hmm?" she returned. "Oh, I was busy thinking. But what are you asking?"

"Should we focus our efforts and attention," Crixus repeated. "On this business with the Arena, making connections for our Mages Guild or joining the Fighters Guild?"

"I say we make more connections for your new Mages Guild," she replied. "But first, let us find another place to stay."

"Why?" Crixus snickered. "You don't like it here?" She shook her head and Crixus chuckled. "What's wrong with this place? Good food, good beer, the music is good!" A few local patrons in one corner were sloshing through The First Song of the Hero, which Crixus appreciated slightly.

"You wouldn't understand," she retorted. "You're just like the others in the caves: mating, feeding and killing are the only things they know and enjoy."

Crixus chuckled. "What's wrong with enjoying the local cuisine?"

"It's more than the food you want to enjoy," Lethia groaned. "Especially considering how the innkeeper kept flirting with you."

"Give me a break," Crixus shook his head.

"I might not be knowledgeable about how you slaves procreate," Lethia stated. "But I am a woman, and I know that a woman doesn't display herself in such a manner unless she's flirting."

"Does that bother you?" Crixus asked.

"Suppose that it does?" she returned.

"Wait," Crixus chuckled. "Did you actually think that you and me were going to fuck?" He shook his head, laughing. "You can't be that naive, not with all your talk of slaves and such."

"Don't flatter yourself," she dismissed.

"No, it's alright," Crixus grinned. "I've had women throwing themselves at me since I was in the Legion. It's no secret, I am..." He threw up his hands, a self-confident smile on his face. "...a fuck to die for. But you, Lethia, I always knew that it wouldn't be me fucking you."

"And why not," she returned. "Since you seem to have such a high opinion of yourself?"

"Because if anyone's gonna be fucking you," Crixus replied. "It'll be a mer. I'm not a Nord, I have no intention of wiping out the Snow Elf race by fucking the last one myself. It should be an elf, someone with whom you might have a proper chance of repopulating your species."

"And what say in this matter do _I_ have?" Lethia retorted.

"You of all people should want to have more of your own kind back in existence, right?" Crixus asked.

At that moment, Flavia appeared again at their table-side.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked.

"One thing," Crixus said, raising his hand. At this, she turned around and, placing her hands upon the table, leaned over, displaying her assets once again before his eyes alone. Biting his lower lip to keep from laughing, he said: "Two things, actually." Lethia shook her head, Petruvius buried his face in his hand and Flavia grinned.

"Have you received any messenger ravens?" Crixus asked.

"Not yet," she replied. "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually," Crixus nodded. "You mentioned the table with Attrebus Mede's initials on it. Could I have the pleasure of seeing it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Flavia, pursing her lips. "But that table is in my house, on the other side of the inn."

"Would there be any way of seeing it?" Crixus asked.

"Maybe," she replied, smiling. Her eyes shifted to her right. "For now, I have an inn to run. Just give my door a knock this evening, let's say...ten?"

"Whatever you say," Crixus returned, returning her smile with a slight grin. Flavia rose up and went off in the direction she had looked. When she was gone, Crixus turned to Lethia, who shook her head angrily.

"If you cannot see that," she replied. "You're blinder than my people, slave."

"Hmm," Crixus grimaced. "Nevertheless, it would be worth seeing, if only for the history."

"History is not what you're after, slave," Lethia stated disapprovingly.

"Jealous, are you?" Crixus chuckled.

"Of _that_ tramp?" she queried. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Petruvius, what do you think?" Crixus asked, turning to his squire. "You've been rather silent through all of this."

"Hmm?" he replied. "Oh, well, you told me not to object, so I won't object. Who you sleep with is your affair."

"No, I meant of her," Crixus added with a smirk. "What do you, you know, think of her?"

"I think she's a little old, don't you think, sir?" Petruvius commented.

"Can't be older than forty," Crixus stated. "And, regardless of what my faces says, I'm not exactly young myself, you know." He looked in the direction Flavia went. "She'll be...experienced in all the right ways. Like a fine wine, aged to perfection."

"If you say so, sir," Petruvius said before taking a sip of wine from his cup.

* * *

Later that evening, as the hour of ten was approaching, Lethia and Petruvius had already ascended the stairs to their bedrooms. Crixus, meanwhile, was making his way over to the house in the "crook of the L" of the Hero's Welcome. On his way there, he saw that the windows of the inn were all barred on the outside. In the distance, a barking dog set Crixus' nerves on end. Even Riften had not seemed as ominous and potentially threatening as Kvatch did now. Crixus jogged the last few steps to the door and knocked upon it three times. After a minute of silence, a window at eye's level opened up. Upon seeing Crixus, the window closed and the sound of dead-bolts being unlocked was heard: moments later the door was opened and Flavia was standing there.

"I'm glad to see you decided to come," she greeted with a smile. "Please, come inside, quickly. It's not safe to be in the streets at night."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked, stepping into her small house.

"Just between us," Flavia stated as she locked every bolt behind him once he was inside. "The Count is not a very good administrator."

"Indeed?" Crixus asked again.

"I've had a few wealthy patrons come in here," she continued. "Who have let slip that he leaves the dealings of the court to his friend Publius Varro. Of course, you can't tell anyone I said this, or let this on to anyone either. Varro has eyes and ears all over the city."

"One man can't be _that_ powerful," Crixus dismissed.

"Think again, friend," Flavia sighed. "All of his rivals have ended up dead or quit the county. Besides, there ain't too many people here in town like me. Most people go along just to get along, and the general sentiment in the counties is that, no matter how bad the count is, because of his position, we're obliged to respect him, if not love him."

"A noble sentiment," Crixus stated. "The Count is an honorable position, not like the violent, law-breaking, drunken, illiterate earls of Skyrim. The Counts deserve respect, not like the earls."

"I feel the Count should behave honorably in order to be worthy of honor," Flavia stated.

"And you?" Crixus asked.

"What about me?" she returned, grinning slyly.

"Some would say that you were not conducting yourself honorably earlier this evening in the cantina," Crixus stated. "Are you worthy of honor?"

"Few people see the role of innkeeper as a position worthy of honor," Flavia stated. "Especially for a woman to hold. It's even worse when you worship Dibella, like I do. So I've just decided that, if I'm going to be called a slut, I might as well enjoy myself thereby." She sighed. "But enough about me. Do you still want to see the Attrebus Mede table?"

"That's why I'm here," Crixus replied.

"That's _only_ why you're here?" she asked.

Crixus shrugged. "There may have been...other things."

With a grin, Flavia led Crixus into a small dining room reserved for private guests at her house. In the center of the room was a very old table, whose top had been so worn that it was as smooth as marble. After directing Crixus to look along the table's edge, Flavia went into the pantry to seek out a bottle of wine. With a little searching on his part, Crixus saw the initials _AM_ carved into the side of the table, followed by the date: _4E 37._

"A fine piece," Crixus stated.

"It was carved there by Attrebus Mede," Flavia said as she walked out of the pantry, a bottle of 180 Surilie Bros. wine in her hand. "When he was the Crown Prince, touring the counties. A bold one was Prince Attrebus, like his father at his age, before he became Emperor."

"Wait, his father was Emperor?" Crixus asked. "I thought _Attrebus_ was the first Medan Emperor."

Flavia chuckled. "Where have you been living, friend, that you don't know your own history, Morrowind? Attrebus was the second Medan Emperor, the first one was his father, Titus I. Although..." She placed the bottle on the table and went to a cupboard, where she pulled out a white linen table-cloth and placed it upon the table, talking while she did. "...perhaps I shouldn't be too hard on you. I mean, after all, that's ancient history. And maybe they teach different things at the universities in the Capital and Bruma." She then gave a slight chuckle as she brought two wooden cups from the pantry.

"Whatever gave the old Count of Bruma the idea to build a university there of all places is beyond me."

"I hear _that_," Crixus grinned. "Most Nords wouldn't know how to pronounce university, much less know what it's for."

Flavia poured wine into the cups, then handed one to Crixus. "But enough about politics, for now. So tell me, Morrowind, how is it over there?"

"Are you going to fuck me or talk me to sleep?" Crixus jibed as he sipped from the cup.

"Now now, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Flavia chuckled. "Besides, I'm an innkeeper by reputation, but also by trade. It's my job and hobby to hear the news from the counties and provinces which, thanks to the lock-down, has become rather rare of late. So please, tell me about Morrowind. How is it like?"

"I was only at Mournhold," Crixus stated.

"I see you got out before the dark elves rebelled, thank the Eight," she replied. "But what about the women?"

"What about them?" Crixus returned.

"Tell me about them," said Flavia. "Are they really as the rumors say they are?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Flavia continued. "It's said that they never bathe, that some have completely shaven heads but shave no other part of their bodies. Is this so?"

Crixus nodded. "It is so."

"And are they as...virile as they say?"

"Some certainly had the ability to be," Crixus stated. "I had the unique privilege of learning quite a bit about their fucking rituals."

"Maybe you could show me?" Flavia asked, taking her first sip and lifting her eyebrows in an inviting gesture.

It had only been three days since he last slept with someone, but, having indulged himself throughout his adulthood, the urge was stronger and more all-consuming with each year. He threw himself onto Flavia, who, with equal desires in mind, threw her arms around Crixus' neck as they began kissing each other vigorously. As his hands started moving down to her skirt, she told him to take her upstairs to her bed. He carried her up the stairs, held as she was with her arms around his neck. Once at the top stair, she directed him to a room with an open door. Inside, he threw her down onto the bed and they indulged themselves until nigh on to midnight. At last, with only twenty minutes left until the clock at the Chapel of Akatosh struck twelve, Flavia collapsed onto her bed, thoroughly exhausted from the vigorous love-making and Crixus lay on top of her, with his face resting in her glistening bosom.

* * *

When he awoke, he found himself lying face up on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Turning to his left, he saw that Flavia was not in the bed with him. His first inclination was that she had risen early and gone to the inn to attend to her duties. But as he looked to the right, he saw her standing, fully dressed on the other side of the room, with her back to the door as if she was ready to make a last stand in her own room.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"What, not even a kiss good morning?" Crixus jibed.

"This is no time for games," Flavia returned. "Who are you?"

"Just a traveler who needed a lay, that's all," Crixus replied.

"That's not good enough," she stated, shaking her head. "I want a name, and who you belong to."

"Is this an interrogation?" Crixus asked. "What have I done?"

Flavia scoffed. "Like you don't know!"

"What?" Crixus returned. "I...the last thing I remember was..." He was about to say '...falling asleep in your tits after a long, hard night of fucking', but then something else came to his mind. He could see shapes of men in blue robes standing over him, empty hands raised as though they would cast a spell. But the images were vague, hazy, as if seen through a fog.

"What happened?" Crixus asked, his voice slow and wary.

"_I'm_ the one asking the questions here," Flavia returned. "Now tell me who you are!"

Crixus sighed. "I'm in the Imperial Legion, or _was_. I'm returning to the Capital after defeating the barbarians in the North."

"Were you part of the Battle-Mage companies, by any chance?" she asked.

"What? No!" Crixus retorted. "I was a legate. I led troops wherever I was commanded. Look, is this going anywhere? I've never been exactly comfortable sharing my secrets with complete strangers."

"You put your pretty cock inside me," Flavia stated. "I think that makes us more than strangers."

"Even though you don't even know my name?" Crixus asked.

"Well?"

"Decimus Crixus," he lied. It was his custom to give a false given name as his own. "But unless you and I are married or related by blood, you can call me Crixus."

"Very well, Crixus," Flavia replied. "What reason would the Synod have to come after you?"

Crixus' heart stopped at the mention of the Synod. Exactly what they did was still a mystery to him, but he feared that, somehow, they had discovered that he was trying to supplant them with his new Mages Guild.

"I don't know," Crixus answered: the truth of his statement was vague. "I've never had dealings with them."

"Are you part of the College of Whispers?" Flavia asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head.

"Then why did the Synod break into _my_ house last night?" she demanded.

"They did?" Crixus asked.

"Don't play dumb with me, Crixus," Flavia retorted.

"I'm not!" Crixus stated. "I...don't...I have no memory of anything..." He could hear words being spoken, but they were vague and distorted and he understood nothing of what was said. "Since you seem to know all about what happened, why don't _you_ tell me?"

"I rolled out of bed and crawled underneath," she replied, hanging her head in shame. "I had no choice. They had the door and we're not allowed to have weapons."

"And where were the city guards during all of this?" Crixus asked.

Flavia scoffed grimly. "They wouldn't lift a finger to stop the Synod. That's how it works in the city: the Count gives them permission to set up their office and they 'bring magic' to our city by operating with the blessings of the Count and the Grand Council."

"The Elder Council, you mean?" Crixus corrected.

"No, the _Grand_ Council," she repeated. "As in the Grand Council of the Synod. Sweet Dibella, was there no Synod in Mournhold?"

"Not that I remember," Crixus stated. "Then again, nobody in Mournhold held to any Imperial customs or laws. House Hlaalu did, but they were always in the minority."

"Well," Flavia replied. "Things are different here in civilized Cyrodiil. The Synod operates freely wherever they believe someone might be abusing their laws and restrictions against magical users. The Count never lifts a finger to stop them and the Elder Council certainly won't."

"I don't believe you," Crixus shook his head. "I can't believe that Imperial counts would be so callous as to ignore the plight of their own people."

"Open your eyes!" Flavia retorted. "These are _not_ the days of Uriel Septim. Not every count is as good as they claim to be."

"Then what was all that talk about loving them no matter if they are corrupt?" Crixus retorted.

"I...don't mistake me," Flavia sighed. "I'm not a rebel, I just hear things and have an opinion of my own. It will be a sorry day for all of us indeed when opinions are punishable by death."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "Certain opinions should not be tolerated, like the backwards notion of independence the barbarians of Skyrim practiced. Or those opinions that threaten the common good of the Empire, those should not be tolerated."

"Look, I'm not here for a debate," Flavia retorted. "All I wanted were some answers about last night."

"Yeah? Well, I don't have any," Crixus returned. "Besides, how did you know it was the Synod at all? Weren't you under the bed when this happened?"

"I heard one of them mention the Synod," Flavia replied. "And I saw the hems of their robes: Synod mages wear blue robes with golden hems. These were they."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, then, is this little interrogation over with?"

"It's not an interrogation," Flavia stated. "I'm perfectly entitled to know why the Synod broke into my house and attacked my guest!"

"Your bawd, you mean," Crixus clarified as he looked down at himself: his clothes were still lying on the floor, where he had left them the night before.

Flavia cocked her head to one side. "I wouldn't call you that. Nor would I say that I didn't enjoy myself with you. Perhaps you would visit me more often...so long as you leave your Synod friends at home?"

"I have no home," Crixus replied: it was a rare moment of honesty. "But I will get to the bottom of this. Next time, I promise you, there will be no Synod to disturb us. Can I go now?"

"I've only one last question for you," Flavia noted.

"And that is?"

"Who is Miraak?"

Crixus' blood froze at the mention of that name. Into his mind were conjured images of the dark, twisted eldritch realm of Apocrypha and its arrogant Atmoran usurper. His power was such that he could kill and dominate dragons and so great that, even as a mere shadow, an image projected by his power from this plane of Oblivion, he could steal the soul of a dragon from both himself and Eirik. His servants, misguided Dunmer cultists from the isle of Solstheim, had dogged his every step, driving him to face him though he would rather not have anything to do with him. In the end, Eirik's brute strength proved useful in defeating Miraak and the daedric prince Hermaeus Mora slew him. How Miraak had managed to evade his eyes for an eternity seemed strange to Crixus, but not having Miraak's cultists attack him at inconvenient times and places in the dead of the night or being affronted after killing a dragon were definite good things.

"What did you say?" he gasped.

"I heard you calling out that name," Flavia replied. "I thought at first it was your name, but then you gave me your own name, and I wonder..."

Crixus shook his head and said nothing else as he rose up and put on his clothes. Once his trousers were back on, he turned to Flavia and spoke.

"I want you," he said slowly and emphatically. "To forget what happened. As far as you know, I had a bad dream and was calling out random names in my sleep."

"But I was attacked!" she retorted. "How can you ask me to..."

"I don't have all the answers," Crixus returned. "But I'm going to find them soon."

* * *

As soon as Crixus got dressed, he made his way back to the Hero's Welcome. What he found as soon as he entered was an inn in chaos. From the common room to the halls between the rooms, people were talking in worried tones. Apparently someone had broken into the inn that night and disturbed the peace. Crixus' mind went back to what Flavia told him about the Synod and his concern deepened. Just how safe were the messages he was sending to and from his contacts for the Mages Guild? Were the bird-keepers being paid to share the messages of their ravens to whoever asked? These and more thoughts filled his head as he made his way to the room they had purchased for that night.

His concern changed to worry when he saw that many of the guests were gazing at that room in particular. What had Petruvius and Lethia done to attract attention? Had Lethia revealed herself? Pushing aside those loitering in the hallways, discussing what had happened the night before, Crixus made his way to the room, where his worry immediately turned to fear. The door was open and inside the room were small burn-marks, as if lightning had scorched the timbers and stones of the room: Petruvius and Lethia, however, were nowhere to be found. Immediately he ran inside and searched the room, to see if there was any indication as to who might have taken them. Petruvius, at least, would have left some sign that Crixus could read. Unfortunately, the room was bare of any marking and not a single note of ransom had been placed anywhere.

At once, Crixus left the inn and went for the city guards. He quickly explained his situation to them, that his companions had been kidnapped from the Hero's Welcome. He described Petruvius in great detail but said nothing more about Lethia than that she was a mer who had some disfigurement and refused to show her face.

"I'll do what I can," the guard replied. "But unless you can tell me who kidnapped them, there ain't much I can do to help you. Most of us are posted at the gates and walls to keep out newcomers."

"I don't know who kidnapped them," Crixus stated. As far as he could tell, the attack against him was disconnected from the disappearance of his comrades: or was it? "Unless...it might have been the Synod. They did attack the publican and I last night as well."

"If you have a problem with the Synod," the guard stated. "There's nothing I can do about it. You'll have to take it up with the Chief Attendant at the Synod office in town."

Crixus sighed as he walked away. It seemed as though he had hit a dead end for the time being. Neither the facts "as they were" nor his hunch that the Synod took them would have been of much help in expiditing their liberation. If they came after him, as Flavia had told him, then walking right up to the doors of their office was the last thing he wanted to do. As far as an investigation of his own, he did not know where to begin that would take him someplace other than the Synod Office in Kvatch.

While he was thus distracted, he saw the Breton man Eddard Perrick walking up to him.

"Is everything alright, sir?" he asked.

"You," Crixus stated. "Why are you here? Don't you have people to bring in to the city?"

"Yes and no," Perrick replied. "It's been one day and you haven't done as I instructed."

"My friends are missing," Crixus retorted. "I can't just ignore that, can I?"

"If you know what's best for you, you will," Perrick clarified. "My organization got you into the city, therefore in return, you must get the city opened, which means sponsoring Zeno's games with waging on the Arena fights."

"But I have little money," Crixus stated.

"Don't worry about money," Perrick replied. "We'll make sure that you have enough to spend. For the mean time, you have a job to do."

"But what about..."

"We can have your pass revoked," Perrick noted. "I can have it nullified this very evening, tell the Count it was taken by force and under pain of death. You will be expelled from the city or thrown into the dungeon, whatever Count Romulus fancies at the time, and my organization will go unnoticed."

"Then why do you need me anyway?" Crixus asked. "If your organization is so all-powerful?"

"You are an important piece in our line of work," Perrick replied in a knowing voice that made Crixus shudder: just how much did this red-haired, little Breton know about him and his value? "People like you are hard to come by, but very valuable."

"Are you sure you want to talk to _me_ like that?" Crixus retorted.

"You have no minions to defend you," Perrick stated. "And you are here at our discretion and at our mercy. Do not fool yourself into thinking that merely because Lord Mayor Signius gave you a writ of credit, you are one of us. Until you wear the badge, you are still just an accessory, like everyone else." He then grinned smugly.

"Now go and do as we have ordered you," he concluded. "Wager on the fights in the Arena, make some money and convince the Count to re-open the city. The rest is up to us. As for your minions, I have it on good authority that in three days time, there will be one coming to Kvatch, one with the expertise in dangerous missions of lost or stolen companions. Perhaps he might help you find your lost minions?"

* * *

**(AN: -sigh- This was going to be a longer chapter, but i'm really hating the pacing of the time in Kvatch. I have an idea for what will happen, but it will take a while.)**

**(Aside from the usual stuff in this chapter, we did have an interesting encounter with someone who was at first just a fling for Crixus, who then might become a source of information once Kvatch is re-opened. But can Eddard Perrick be trusted, and who are the "powerful friends" he speaks of? Did the Synod really kidnap Petruvius and Lethia? And why was Crixus talking about Miraak? All of these and more will soon be revealed.)**


	11. Under New Management

**(AN: Kind of abrupt, but i feel that, since our enemy is a sentient one that, like in _The Dragon and the Bear_, they need to have a bit of development. One of them is a canon villain who was never fleshed out and the other one is entirely new.)**

**(Speaking of the game creators leaving things out, who is the head of the Church of the Nine [aka. the "Imperial cult" as the Dunmer so derisively call it]? _Morrowind_ really went in-depth with its whole heretical Tribunal and all of Vivec's bullshit "sermons" and _Oblivion_ just made the Cot9 look like a stereotypical medieval Catholic Church, but we never got anything profound about it. Who is the head of the Church of the Nine/Eight? Is it the Emperor? One would think that, since he is referred to as "Eminence", a title given only to spiritual leaders [cardinals and bishops, who are not even heads of the Catholic Church]. The Emperor being the head of the church kind of smacks of rather tyrannical governments [Imperial Rome comes to mind, as do other modern socialist governments where the state is worshiped]. So what do you think?)**

* * *

**Under New Management**

Lexerus Buteo was not accustomed to waiting on anyone. It had been years since he last waited on someone, since the Great War. He had been a youth at that time, a youth of middling family who had worked their way up from nothing in the dregs of the Imperial City, the great Capital. Being young and deemed physically unfit for duty, Lexerus was forced to remain in the Capital as the Dominion closed in around them. Using money he had acquired by pawning some of his family possessions and heirlooms to contacts within the Merchants Guild and the Thieves Guild, he managed to garner enough money to take him and his family out of the City before the Dominion took it: he went alone and left his family at the mercy of the Dominion.

When the War ended and the White-Gold Concordant was signed, Buteo returned to the Imperial City to find that the Dominion had not fully left after the signing. In the years that followed, he built his way up from nothing to become one of the wealthiest people in Cyrodiil. By his thirtieth birthday, he had become the youngest member on the Elder Council. Having earned his way to the top, he fell thoroughly in love with the new-found power and prestige of his office. But the lure of more was still there and after the last Chancellor mysteriously died on a boating venture on the Strid River, Lexerus Buteo was in a position to make himself the High Chancellor of the Elder Council: a position some said was as high, if not higher, than that of the Emperor.

He now stood inside the Thalmor Embassy in the Elven Quarter in the Imperial City, waiting for the arrival of the new High Justicar of the Thalmor. He had never been here before in person: all of his dealings with the Thalmor had been with their agents, who seemed to always find their way past his personal guards and into his own bedchambers in the dead of the night. Lexerus did not enjoy dealing with the Thalmor: they always made him feel inferior, no matter what they said and no matter the context. From their towering height of seven feet - even their women were thin and tall like willow trees - to their mannerisms, speech and bearing, everything about them made him, an educated, cultured Colovian, feel like an ignorant Nord child.

As far as he knew, the first High Justicar had been an Altmer by the name of Thelgil, who had been in the Imperial City off and on since he, Lexerus, joined the Elder Council. When he became the High Chancellor, Thelgil's agents reported to him directly with new orders. They were always arrogant and demanding in their requests: their lord, they said, hated the humans he was forced to deal with and made sure that he, Lexerus, knew that at every point. The last Lexerus had heard of him, he had left for Skyrim and had not yet returned. Then the news came that a new High Justicar was coming in from the Summerset Isles to take command of Thelgil's operation in Cyrodiil: could it possibly mean that Thelgil was, Divines willing, dead? He dared to hope that his successor would be less exacting and, gods willing, kinder. But asking kindness of an Altmer was futile: one might as well claim that Masser and Secunda were the rounded balls of Lorkhan's corpse, filled with massive, writhing worms, leaving their holes in the many dots on the moons' surfaces.

Lexerus stood in the massive antechamber of the Thalmor Embassy, feeling as if he were in a chapel of the Divines, in the presence of the gods. The guards at the outer doors and those within the massive antechamber were all taller than him, gazing down their thin noses at the little human walking among them in his gaudy Colovian cloak, thickly embroidered and woven with gold as if he were an Imga trying to imitate High Elven style. To them, the cloak of office meant nothing: it was merely a gaudy covering of someone low even among his own people, hiding the blue-grey tunic beneath it. For a young one of his race - forty-nine was young by any elvish standard - he seemed withered, thin as a willow wand and having lost most of the hair upon his head. Even his stance was gangly and unsophisticated: only a human could even pretend that such a gait was anything but clumsy and uncivilized. It mattered not to them that Lexerus had fought, worked and clawed his way to the top, that he had rich friends from Leyawiin to Wayrest: he was just another human, and ignorant cow grazing stupidly in the fields of its masters, unaware that they were plotting his downfall.

Thirty minutes after the hour of noon, the hour of the appointed meeting. Lexerus was on time, nay a minute early, and waiting impatiently for the arrival of the newcomer. For the present, his own mind was able to imagine what he would say to this new High Justicar when he arrived. He would tell him how rude it was that he kept him, Lexerus Buteo, High Chancellor of the Elder Council, waiting for half an hour. He would make this High Elf see that he would not be ordered around like some mongrel Nord.

At last the doors were opened behind him and he turned about from his pacing, stiffening up to appear as imposing and proper as he could. Into the antechamber walked a cadre of Thalmor in black robes lined with gold, their hoods pulled down over their heads, obscuring their faces. Without a word they parted, revealing a slender Altmer woman standing amid them, dressed in similar black robes hemmed and lined with gold; upon her shoulders and wrists, however, were pauldrons and vambraces of gold-overlaid moonstone. Though she too, like Thelgil - and most of the Altmer Lexerus had encountered for that matter - had a high, narrow head, her eyes were not squint or slanted: they seemed almost human-like. But now those eyes gazed upon him with a piercing, judgmental glare that made Lexerus quiver.

"What impertinence," she stated. "As the High Justicar, I expect punctuality, not any impish attempts to supersede my authority. Are we clear on this?"

"Um, uh..." stammered Lexerus. "Y-You're the new High Justicar?"

"And _you_ are the High Chancellor of the Elder Council?" she asked in a voice of disbelief. "A stammering old fool who doesn't understand the concept of punctuality. I'm appalled that you represent the Empire and her interests."

"Uh, we are honored to have you meet us here personally, lady..." Lexerus extended, trying his best to appear cultured and welcoming.

"Lady Arannelya," she replied. "And flattery with get you nowhere with me. Unlike my predecessor, I am not a pushover."

If this was a joke, none of the parties involved were laughing. As Lexerus remembered, Thelgil had no compunction with ordering his Thalmor agents, or those who were under his command, enthralled to him by fear, debt or other means, to openly kill citizens of the Empire. Young, old, rich, poor, men, women, children, human and, if it served his purposes, even mer were not safe from his wrath. Furthermore, any opportunity to usurp the authority of the Emperor, the Legion or the Elder Council, Thelgil did not hesitate to exploit. If this was what Lady Arannelya considered 'pushing over', it gave Lexerus shivers to think of how she would behave.

"Now, then," she said. "I hope your cooks have prepared a meal for my arrival. I've come all this way and I am famished. Hopefully your simple human chefs know how to make the finest of High Elven cuisine: I will accept nothing less."

The letter announcing the arrival of a new High Justicar gave no indication that there would be a dinner: merely a formal meeting. But though wealth had made Lexerus impatient, it had not made him idle. Immediately he called for his valet, who stood a little behind him, silent all this time, as a rule, and ordered him to have food prepared at the Emperor's dining hall in the White-Gold Tower. As soon as the valet bowed and left to carry out the orders, he turned back to Lady Arannelya, who continued to look upon him with quiet disdain.

"How was your trip, my lady?" Lexerus finally got out, speaking hastily and in one breath.

"I'm terribly sorry," Lady Arannelya stated, gently shaking her head. "I couldn't understand a word of that. Would you care to speak slower and open your mouth wider? I won't have the High Chancellor of the Elder Council mumbling anything in my presence."

"I said," Lexerus enunciated slowly. "How was your trip, my lady?"

"I'm not a child or a Nord," Arannelya scolded. "There's no need to talk to me as though I were one. Or perhaps your tiny mind is only capable of talking like an idiot or an imbecile?"

"N-No!" he retorted. "Of course not! And may I say..."

"You may _not_ say," Arannelya replied. "Leave the saying to your council-members. With me, you have only two duties: to listen to every word I say and obey every word I say to the letter. Do we have an understanding now?" She took a step closer to him, glaring down her thin nose at him as if he were stinking dung.

"Because if you refuse," she threatened. "I can make life very difficult for you, as a start."

"Y-Yes, I understand!" Lexerus nodded. "B-Believe me, I've only ever desired to work _with_ the Dominion! Yes, we're not in the business of denying or refusing you anything, not a thing at all!"

"Oh, dear Auri-El, another Placator," Arannelya groaned, her hand reaching up to caress her forehead in annoyance.

"I...is something wrong?" Lexerus asked.

"Yes, I would say so," she returned, her arms folding across her chest. "Nothing will be done if you persist in tripping over yourself to appease us: we both know that is impossible for you humans to do, so you might as well stop trying. Now, while we're waiting for dinner, on account of _your_ lack of foresight, I want to make a few things perfectly clear."

Underneath his simpering exterior, Lexerus was fuming. He was the High Chancellor of the Elder Council, commanding great respect of all of the Empire and the rest of the Council. He had fought to survive during the War, strove for his position on the Council, strove to become the High Chancellor and, while on the Council and as its head, had strove to promote equality and mutual cooperation between the people of Cyrodiil and the Altmer. He alone had coordinated through raven at the last minute with Commander Severus Maro over the plan that sent the second decoy aboard the _Katariah_ back to Cyrodiil. By his hand, the Elder Council were being kept in the dark, believing that the Emperor was indisposed in the White-Gold Tower, old, sick and desirous of giving more authority to the High Chancellor, himself. In Lexerus' own mind, he was the only one keeping the Empire from collapsing in on itself. How _dare_ this woman treat him like an imbecile!

"As I said," Arannelya continued. "I am not Thelgil: I have no pride to appease with your bowing and scraping. My only desire is to maintain the status quo in Cyrodiil. If this is done, you can expect to be rewarded." Her arms relaxed as she noticed Lexerus' eyes swelling at her statements.

"Yes, that's right," she replied. "I'm not so ungrateful that I won't reward service rendered to my office and to the Dominion. Continue to provide such loyal service to us and you will be well rewarded." Her demeanor changed and her eyes hardened their gaze upon him.

"But do not think," she clarified. "That because I am fair that means I will be lenient. I will continue to demand that the White-Gold Concordant be upheld to the letter and all that that implies. Your support and unconditional acceptance of and deference to the authority of my office in all matters will also be required."

"Of course!" Lexerus bowed. When his head rose up, he saw Arannelya had approached him by a few steps. Her towering presence and her piercing, yellow eyes made any part of her face that one might find lovely, even a Colovian who worshiped Altmeri and Akaviri styles of culture, law, art and beauty, seem menacing and dangerous.

"I trust," she stated, her voice calm and serious. "That there will be no attempts made, either on your part or on the part of the rabble you represent, to supersede, countermand or, Auri-El forbid, usurp my authority. It would be a terrible inconvenience to us all if I were to take sterner measures to insure the obedience of you and the rabble." Taking a knee, she came down to his level and looked him straight in the eye, whispering her next words. "You would _beg_ me to make your life miserable."

She held him in her gaze for a good long time. Lexerus tried his best not to flinch, but he found that trying to hold still only made his body quake all the more. Without making a noise or gesture, Arannelya cocked one eyebrow, sending a shiver through his body. Her face unchanged, she rose back up to her towering height.

"Very good," she remarked. "Now, I trust that your chefs can bring the food from your kitchens to this place without tripping over their own feet? And quickly, mind you, I'd rather the food not get cold while we're waiting."

Lexerus bowed and looked at the doors, waiting for his valet to enter the embassy antechamber to tell him that the food was being prepared. Being in the same room with Lady Arannelya was, to him, the closest he might ever be to being trapped in a room with an angry mountain lion. He hated the feeling of powerlessness which being in the presence of the Thalmor always brought. He was the High Chancellor of the Elder Council dammit: for all that he had fought and sacrificed, he deserved the respect due to his office.

Nevertheless, he knuckled under and chose to endure Lady Arannelya's behavior through the wait and later on into their meal. Going along just to get along, just as his people had been doing with the Dominion since the War was over. He faced the knowledge every day with his duties as the head of the Elder Council, the complacency of the Counts, the fear of the people. The people of Cyrodiil were not like the people of Skyrim or Hammerfell, warriors who had taken their land by might of arms. Their history was painted with slavery and oppression, first by the Ayleids and then by the Cyrodiil warlords, the Akaviri, the Septims, the Medes and now the Dominion. Submission to authority, no matter how capricious and tyrannical, was part of their history.

Lexerus Buteo was not interested in changing the world. That was for ascetics like Councilor Curio and philosopher-mages like the Synod and the College of Whispers. He had reached the top, seen what it offered and, all things considered, enjoyed it: and he wanted to continue enjoying it until he died a ripe old age. One thing he quickly learned upon reaching the top was that power was not kept by changing the status quo but by maintaining it. Despite her arrogant behavior, Lady Arannelya had intimated the maintaining of the status quo to be one of her aims. As with Thelgil, working with the Dominion proved to be much safer and more profitable than working against them.

* * *

**(AN: Here we introduce main Thalmor villain number 3, Lady Arannelya. First [and only] mentioned in the lore of the Great War, she led the Dominion forces that took most of Hammerfell, and then lost thanks to the combined forces of the Hammerfell Crowns and Forebears and, unofficially, the 9th Legion. We will definitely be seeing more of her in this story, therefore a little more info is needed. As far as a character, i went with Cardinal Richelieu as depicted in Dumas' _The Three Musketeers_ as an elegant schemer who never really gets their due, ******with a bit of Thrawn from Timothy Zahn's _Star Wars_ sequel trilogy, **as opposed to the very violent, menacing and "radical" Thelgil. However, unlike Elenwen, Arannelya is not all robes and banquets. Her military expertise and tactical knowledge make her as deadly an enemy as both of the previous Thalmor villains. Visually, her look was inspired by Eva Green's character in _300: Rise of an Empire_.)**

**(Lexerus Buteo, on the other hand, we see on his "off day", so to speak: him at his lowest instead of his highest. While not very easily manipulated, the Thalmor are a concern to him since they were responsible [in part] for the death of his family and have been bullying the the Emperor and the Elder Council since the Great War ended. What kind of character he will become, however, is up in the air. As i've stated before, i hate sympathetic, misunderstood villains [which explains why i'm no longer a fan of _Wicked_], so just what he will be is up for interpretation.)  
**


	12. The Spy

**(AN: For the foreseeable future, i will no longer have weekends free to write. Here's to hoping that work, school and the _Battle for Middle Earth 2: Rise of the Witch-King_ Edain mod won't keep me away too much.)**

**(Finally, after ten chapters, one of our new characters is about to meet Crixus. Let me just state that it is still him, just under a different name.)**

* * *

**The Spy**

Two days had passed since Petruvius and Lethia had been abducted from the Hero's Welcome inn in Kvatch. Each day, Servius Crixus went to the guards to inquire if they had made any progress in finding his companions, and every time they gave him bad news. Whenever these inquiries came back empty, he went around the city on his own investigation, asking those he met in the streets if they had seen anyone matching Petruvius' features. Barring magical interference, it seemed unlikely that two people could simply vanish from off the face of Nirn: nevertheless, it seemed as if in this case they had both disappeared utterly.

In addition to this, he would frequent the Arena. Zeno Platorius had told the guards to permit him to sit in his personal box for the fights. True to Platorius' boasts, Drogon proved invincible in battle. He watched him tear apart an Orc, an Argonian and a Nord berserker in the Arena that had attacked him as one, without gaining more than a scratch or two. Though each time he made more and more money, Crixus was more intrigued by Drogon. At the very first, he believed that Drogon was a very large man who wore a bull's head into battle the same way Nords wore wolf-skins or bear-skins. But the fighting spirit into which he fought would have made anyone, even mighty Torgrim or Gorak, into a heavy sweat which would have made anyone want to take that damnable bull's head off. Yet he noted that Drogon never took it off, not even to drink, which he had seen once on the second day, the tenth of Heartfire, when he asked Platorius to see Drogon.

"I'll let you get as close to him as anyone can get to him and live," Platorius explained.

He led Crixus down into the dungeons of the Arena, where they stood above a great iron grate that offered a dim view into a darkened cell. In that cell he saw Drogon lift a bucket of water and pour it down the mouth of the bull's head without removing it. He asked Platorius about it, but he knew only a little more about Drogon than Crixus did.

"He was here before I became organizer of the Arena," Platorius stated. "Varro told me to keep him down there, but that he was strong enough to be of some use in the fights."

"Does he speak?" Crixus asked.

"I've never heard him speak to anyone," Platorius shook his head. "Rather frightening, though, his silence. Makes for a bloody good spectacle, though."

Into Crixus' mind flashed wild thoughts that, perhaps, this Drogon might be a minotaur. It was said that they still roamed in the wilder parts of Cyrodiil, battling with the ogres in the mountainous region around county Bruma and in the darker parts of the Great Forest, though many believed that the War had driven them to extinction. But Crixus dismissed this as foolishness: he had seen sketches of minotaurs in bestiary books, and they all bore thick hair upon their upper bodies, whereas Drogon's upper body was no hairier than that of a fully-grown Colovian man.

On the eleventh of that month, after two fruitful days of wagering in the Arena that had brought Crixus quite a bit of money, he was leaving the Arena after yet another victorious match. As he was walking southward, he saw in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, a man approach a young couple walking and demand their money. When the man tried to fight him off, the thief pulled out a knife and stabbed the man repeatedly, tearing off his purse and running away into an alley, leaving the young woman to cry out for help as she held the bleeding, broken body of her young husband. Crixus turned away: surely the thief had more need of the money than the man had and he was foolish to behave so foolishly. Though how the thief had managed to get a weapon when weapons as small as daggers were banned was a mystery to Crixus. While he was pondering this, he heard a familiar voice speak to him.

"Enjoying the entertainment, Master Crixus?" Perrick's voice spoke.

"Who told you my name was Crixus?" he replied.

"Lord Mayor Thwyndilion," Perrick stated. "She has many connections, enough to know even your name, secretive fellow. But this..." He gestured to the sorry young woman. "...is what you are bound to see in cities in Cyrodiil. Though, to use a very old saying, at least we're not as bad as Bravil, or Bruma or Cheydinhal in these days. Bravil was always a troublesome city, for hundreds of years, as was Bruma, being full of Nords and all. But lately, Cheydinhal has become just as dangerous as those cities, if not more. You'll see that if your travels take you into the Upper Niben, friend."

"You seem to know quite a bit," Crixus stated. "Perhaps a bit more than is safe for you."

"I'm paid to know everything pertinent to the works of my organization," Perrick replied. "Including those who work for us, especially if they are to appear before the Lord Mayor."

"That didn't seem to be the case with Signius," Crixus noted.

"Lord Mayor Thwyndilion is more cautious," Perrick stated. "And she will see you tomorrow evening, after the battle in the Arena. That was one of the reasons I went out to seek you."

"What was the other reason?" Crixus asked.

"I promised you," Perrick replied, becoming less severe. "That one who would be helpful in finding your friends would arrive in Kvatch soon. He arrived this morning and is waiting in the Bloated Rat tavern just south of here. If you want his help, listen to my description of him, for he is very easy to miss in a crowd. He is a Colovian man of average height and thin build, with receding brown hair and a short, pointed beard. He will be dressed in plain robes. Only his eyes have any singular quality to them: dark as ebony and piercing like an elf's."

"A rather picturesque portrayal for an ordinary villain," Crixus grinned. "I've heard bad things about the Bloated Rat."

Perrick scoffed. "From Flavia? Of course she would say that: as a rule, publicans don't promote the business of other inns. Nevertheless, it's good to keep your eyes open in that inn. Not everyone there can be trusted."

"If you say so," Crixus replied.

* * *

It was evening when Crixus made his way to the Bloated Rat tavern. It was built into a cluster of tall buildings on the southeastern edge of town, thrust away from the main drag. It was recognizable by the sign of a very fat rat hanging over one building that seemed to be leaning over into the road. Crixus made his way into the inn, finding that it was darker than any seedy corner-club he had frequented in Mournhold. Smoke from pipes filled the air along with the scent of skooma. The moment he passed through the door, he saw several eyes gaze over at him in disgust and suspicion. His cloak, thankfully, was still among his effects when he slept with Flavia, so he threw his hood down over his head to keep himself hidden.

Quietly he moved among the people in the common room of the tavern, seeking out the one who had been described to him. Most of the men hear seemed to match the description Perrick had given of his man. Brown or dark hair was common among Colovians and Nibenay, and more than a few of them were old enough to have their hair receding from their heads. And from the glances they were giving him, he could see that quite a few also had dark eyes. As far as their gear, most of them were dressed in similar gear to those he had encountered in the Ragged Flagon in Riften. Only one man, as far as he could tell, was dressed in robes: a slight wisp of a man hiding in the shadows of the inn with a hood down over his head and face down. Crixus noted that he sat alone, though, from time to time, someone would approach his table, sit down, share a few words with him, then depart. Once the last man left this stranger's table, Crixus approached and addressed the stranger.

"How do you find the dregs of Kvatch, sirrah?" he greeted.

"No better than the Grey Mare in Chorrol," the stranger replied. His voice was deep, even-toned and surprisingly soothing for one in such a place. "Those who seek danger have their limits, as far as the Thieves Guild are concerned."

"Or perhaps," Crixus proposed. "You have yet to find the right man?"

The man lifted up his head, and Crixus saw a thin, pointed beard and mustache upon his face. "Straight-forwardness in speech, how refreshing in these days. Perhaps you're one who is not afraid of a little danger?"

"As far as the Thieves Guild is concerned?" Crixus asked, taking a seat across from the newcomer. "I've met them in Skyrim, I'm good friends with the new Guild-master."

"With Brynjolf of Riften?" the stranger asked. "My friend, I've heard ill-tidings concerning the Thieves Guild in Skyrim. From what I've heard, they were driven out by an army of rebels."

_Fucking Mjoll_, Crixus thought inwardly. _She must have convinced Eirik to drive the Guild out of Riften. I wonder then if I will meet them here in Cyrodiil._ He then turned to the stranger and addressed him. "And what can you tell me about the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil, friend?"

"I am not a man for words, stranger," the hooded one stated. "For me, news is as good as gold to a thief or merchant. Do you have any news?"

"I might," Crixus stated. "But first, I want an exchange. I've heard tell that you are the one to seek for finding missing people."

"Hmm," the stranger nodded. "But perhaps the guards would be the ones to seek in finding missing people?"

"I've been to the guards before," Crixus replied. "There's no chance of help from them, especially since my...missing people were taken by the Synod."

At this, the stranger paused and removed his hood. He had brown, shoulder-length hair that receded from a prominent forehead, exactly as described by Perrick.

"You must be a fool to anger the Synod," the stranger stated. "There are few in Cyrodiil with the stones to defy them. Most men are content with obeying their laws where they must and staying out of their conflict with the College of Whispers."

"I am not like most men," Crixus stated. "As for why I am in conflict with the Synod, that is a private matter."

"A man of secrets as well," the balding man noted. "And perhaps more than a fool, for a fool does not keep secrets. It is wise to be subtle, especially in such auspicious times as these. But my opinion is meaningless in such matters: I am not a noble or a cleric, only a purveyor of knowledge and information."

"Finder of missing people," Crixus added. "Well, then, perhaps you would be interested in helping me find my missing companions? They were taken by the Synod on the ninth of this month I know not where..."

"And what are you prepared to offer me in return for my services?" he asked.

"I have made a lot of money on the gladiator fights in the Arena," Crixus stated. "I have enough drakes to pay handsomely."

"It is not money that I want," said the stranger. "My last employer paid me a huge sum of money. Even with a tight belt and tighter stomach, I've been able to travel to Bruma, Chorrol and here without spending most of it. You must have something else that would be valuable."

"Information?" Crixus asked.

"You don't appear to be one in the know about much," the stranger stated. "Though, I am willing to hear if you are. Looks can be very deceiving."

"Aha," Crixus chuckled. "My secrets are not worth all the money in the Empire. I was a Legate in the Legion and those secrets we take to our graves."

"Then there are many in the Legion who should be dead by now," the stranger replied. "I have had traffic with the Legion before and they have divulged many significant secrets to me before."

"What are you, some kind of spy for the Thalmor?" Crixus joked.

"I work for whoever pays the most," the stranger said. "And whose information is the most pertinent."

"What about my services, hmm?" Crixus asked. "I have many skills that I can bring to any job you might need. Aside from the Legion, I served time with the Thieves Guild, doing jobs for them."

The stranger shook his head, clicking his tongue. "I'm afraid you overestimate the grasp of the Guild. Whatever might have befallen the Thieves Guild in Skyrim has not yet affected those in Cyrodiil." At this, he lowered his head and swore.

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"I have never met anyone," the stranger chuckled grimly. "Man, woman, mer or beast-folk, who could pry so much out of me for so little. There is more about you than meets the eye, stranger. Tell me your name."

"Valerius Crixus," he replied. "And yours?"

"Call me Lucan," the stranger stated. "Now then, Crixus, you claim to have the skills of a thief and the training of a Legionnaire and you offer me your services. What makes you think I would need your services?"

"Why else is a man like you in a place like this?" Crixus asked. "If you wanted knowledge, you should be in the castle, chatting it up with the Count and his courtiers, or hobnobbing with the locals here in the common room. You came to a dark, hole-in-the-wall place like this to find someone to do some work for you, probably some dirty work, it seems."

"Hmm," Lucan murmured, stroking his beard. "You're more perceptive than you appear. As my network of agents have failed me so far, perhaps it is time to seek independent help in this matter." He ordered a couple of drinks for himself and Crixus. Once the drinks arrived, Crixus fell to drinking periodically from his cup while Lucan gazed at Crixus from the top of his, examining him with his piercing, dark eyes.

"A few months ago," Lucan began. "I was invited to the court of Bravil for a secret assignment. A wealthy patron there asked for my service in recovering his daughter, whom he believed had taken up with the Thieves Guild."

"Tell me what you know about the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil," Crixus stated. "I've been eager to know what they're like here."

"Little better than bandits, it seems," Lucan replied, shifting uneasily. "About twenty years ago, towards the end of the Great War, something happened that caused the Thieves Guild to implode. Houses were raided, men and women dragged through the streets and executed or imprisoned for their crimes. The skooma dealer gang wars in Bravil all but destroyed the old Guild headquarters there. Those that remained have taken to killing, a thing uncommon among the Thieves Guild. Then, last year, something happened. What more there is, though, I cannot say. Perhaps my contact, Lord Mayor Thwyndilion, will shed some light on the matter?"

"You're with the Merchants Guild?" Crixus asked.

"They are a means to an end, like all things," Lucan stated. "I use them when I can, but I am not partial to any guild, legal or otherwise. But I've said more than enough: tell me about your missing people now." Crixus shared with him what he felt he could share about Petruvius and nothing about Lethia beyond that she was a deformed mer who never showed her face.

"Hmm," Lucan mused once Crixus had finished. "It seems that you have not told everything concerning your companions. That may be best, but it would do to know a little bit more about this elvish woman. The Synod do not often interfere in non-magical affairs. Perhaps if I knew more about this elf, I might be able to tell you why they were captured."

"You look like a man who appreciates the value of a secret," Crixus noted. "Therefore I trust that you will appreciate my need of keeping pertinent details about the third member of my company secret. I'm a man who prefers to stay out of the public eye."

Lucan grinned. "You certainly have an interesting way of staying out of public gaze, by attracting the attention of one of the most powerful organizations in Cyrodiil." He watched as Crixus drained his cup and shouted a barmaid down for more. "Everything about you is contradictory."

"Whatever the fuck do you mean?" Crixus winced through the strong beer.

"When you spoke of having served in the Legion," he stated. "You sounded very proud of yourself, as if it were an accomplishment for which you would wish to be remembered. Yet you also said that you were acquainted with the Skyrim chapter of the Thieves Guild. A thief does not join the army and a man proud of his service would have little recourse to resort to thieving, unless they were down on their fortunes which, as you yourself stated, you are not. You claim to be secretive, yet you've garnered the annoyance of the Synod and had your companions captured in the process. You speak forwardly, yet hide so much in your speech. You carry yourself like a king, yet swallow down beer like water. Also..."

"Also?" Crixus asked. "What also?"

"I can tell by your talk," Lucan stated. "That you are like myself, a man raised during the years before the War. The younger generation, those who lived in Cyrodiil in the aftermath, they don't talk like us. Yet, as far as your appearance is concerned, you seem to be younger than I am. It's not strange that there are some among the younger generation with more traditional ideals, but it is a rare thing in this day and age."

Crixus sighed. "And why do you think _I_ am suddenly so interesting?"

"I am intrigued," Lucan replied. "By the prospect of working with someone after my own spirit. Perhaps after my meeting with the Lord Mayor tomorrow, we can adjourn here to discuss my assignment? I'm sure that, after meeting with the Lord Mayor, I will know where to find her."

"Her?" Crixus asked. "Who's her?"

"The one I'm seeking," Lucan stated. "I can give no further information, for my employer demands secrecy on pain of imprisonment."

"Sounds like a touchy matter," Crixus noted.

"That is the least one might say about it," Lucan vaguely added. "Now then, concerning payment..."

"What do you want?" Crixus asked. "And what are _you_ offering? You haven't given me anything worth my time or money yet."

"I've given you the promise of a future engagement," Lucan stated. "Which is more than I give to anyone else. And I've already told you more than I usually do when dealing with strangers. I'd say that requires a sharing of information or else this meeting has been all in vain."

"Information, eh?" Crixus asked. "Alright, what news do you want to know?"

"You stated that you were in the Legion," Lucan noted. "And that you were acquainted with the Skyrim chapter of the Thieves Guild. I feel that I would not be amiss in assuming that you served lately in Skyrim, under General Flavius Tullius?"

"You would be right in that assumption," Crixus returned.

"In exchange for the wealth of information I've so foolishly divulged on your behalf," Lucan replied. "I would like to know the state of affairs in Skyrim. I heard that the War is over, but to what conclusion it has reached beyond victory for the Empire, I know not."

"And why would that concern you, Lucan?" Crixus asked.

"My dear Crixus," Lucan retorted, his deep voice still as even-toned and soothing. "The Empire is but three provinces: the stability of one affects the Empire as a whole, therefore, like as not, the fate of Skyrim and the Empire as a whole are linked."

"I wish it weren't so," Crixus muttered. "I wish to all the gods that the whole continent, from the Jeralls to the sea, Dragontails to the Velothi, would fall into the sea and take every last damned Nord with it."

"I take it then that you did not enjoy your time in Skyrim?" Lucan asked.

"Of fucking course I didn't _enjoy_ it!" Crixus retorted. "Nothing but snow and big, dumb brutes fighting, fucking and beating their chests like apes to prove their dominance. And that was just the women!"

"Surely it couldn't have been all bad."

"Oh, but it was. And let me tell you something, Lucan: everything that happened there, or anything that may happen as a result of what happened in Skyrim, is on the heads of the Nord race and only the Nord race. They lost the eastern earldom because they have always mistreated the mer races; that was only the first of hopefully many bloody reparations to come. They lost the western earldom because their false heathen god Talos betrayed the Reachmen and made them the pariahs of the Nord people." Crixus looked over his shoulder, then leaned in closer to Lucan, speaking in a hushed voice.

"And their sons and daughters died in the northern earldom because of their blatant and deliberate defiance of the White-Gold Concordant. The Dominion served them due discipline."

"Wait, the Dominion?" Lucan asked. "The Dominion landed troops in Skyrim?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "To mete justice upon the Nords. I tell you, every man, woman and child of the white race that died in Skyrim deserved it: the world will not mourn their passing, the world will be all the safer for their lack."

"Even the children?" Lucan asked, though his voice did not show great concern.

"Especially the children," Crixus stated. "Fewer brats to mature, molest and rape pure Imperial, Breton and mer children and perpetuate their mongrel race."

"Still," Lucan mused softly. "It-It doesn't seem to add up that the Dominion would be so careful for twenty years, only to play their hand early while at least a third of the Empire is still strong."

"It wasn't an act of war," Crixus replied. "It was vengeance long overdue, and it was well deserved." It was not Crixus' turn to muse in silence. He meant every word that he said, yet speaking them seemed to him to be a betrayal. Elisif's life had been in danger every day since the Dominion took Haafingar; what if she, who had brought such solace and comfort to Crixus, had been among the slain hung from the walls of Solitude? Did she deserve to die also?

"Nevertheless," Lucan replied. "The Dominion striking first, these are grave tidings indeed. There are many powerful people who should be made aware of this situation. The House of Nobles, the body of the counts, should be informed, they should be ready to stand up and defend their lands." He pointed to Crixus. "You must deliver this information to them personally."

"Why me?" Crixus asked.

"Because, should the wrong people discover this knowledge," Lucan replied. "It could be disastrous." He placed his hand upon the table, laying upright on its side with fingers held together. "We are standing upon the edge of a precipice, and any misstep could send us into oblivion. We must act swiftly and we must be cautious. Trust no one with this information."

"What about you?" Crixus asked.

"You can trust me to keep this secret safe with me, even if I am thrown in prison and tortured to death," Lucan replied, his hand moving off the table before Crixus could get a good look at the long, pale scar running across its surface. "I am many things, but loyal is certainly one of them."

"Oh yeah?" Crixus queried. "Loyal to who?"

"To the Empire," Lucan replied. "Rulers may come and go, but the Empire must endure."

"A noble sentiment," Crixus grinned. "Perhaps you may be worthy of my trust after all."

"If you put your trust in me, Crixus," Lucan grinned in return. "Then you are indeed a fool. But I will keep this secret safe, and once I have spoken to the Lord Mayor, I will make my way east to begin gestures of introduction for you to the other counts. The others are..." He cleared his throat. "...not as easily swayed as Count Romulus."

"Easy?" Crixus sneered. "If it were so easy, I wouldn't be here in a dark, seedy tavern, would I?"

"There is a saying in Kvatch," Lucan said grimly. "That to gain an audience with the Count of Kvatch, one must bring a child with them. Of course, there are few desperate or deviant enough to permit this, so they must try the other ways."

"Why are you saying this?" Crixus asked. "Shouldn't you at least show Count Romulus the respect he deserves for being Count?"

Lucan grinned. "Like you, Crixus, I am not like everyone else."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "Well, then, until our next meeting, farewell and goodnight."

Lucan nodded as Crixus rose from his seat and went towards the door. Though he had not gotten what he wanted, he found this Lucan to be an intriguing fellow. His deep, soothing voice seemed too reassuring, as if hiding some great secret. Even his bearing seemed to be hiding something: he hunched as if he bore a great burden upon his back. The eyes, also, were very remarkable; few people he could call into mind had such dark, piercing, relentless eyes. It was also intriguing that Lucan kept saying that he told more than he should. As far as Crixus had guessed, he had actually told very little concerning his own self: just what was this strange, thin man hiding?

Or was it an invitation? There was something about his focused desire to have Crixus inform the other Counts of the danger the Dominion had posed in Skyrim. Though Crixus denied it as much as he wanted, the Dominion were not there to punish the Nords: their aims were more sinister. While it was in fact wholly possible that Lucan might be an intelligent man who could see that a union of the counties was what Cyrodiil needed if it was to stand strong against the Dominion, it seemed far too uncanny that he had suggested this while Crixus had been, up until the capture of Petruvius and Lethia, planning to rebuild the Mages Guild for his own purposes.

As Crixus was making his way to the Hero's Welcome, he looked back in the direction of the Bloated Rat: _who are you, Lucan, what is it you want and just how much do you know?_

* * *

**(AN: It will be a while until i get another chapter out, as my weekends are all spent up. But if anyone is still reading this, use this time to review...please? I'd like to get some feedback on Pelagius' character now that he's appeared among an equal. I felt that he was kind of different in this chapter, but i did try to keep to what character i had brought. As far as i can tell, he will be partially responsible for Crixus getting some kind of focus in his goals.)  
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**(One thing i did while building Cyrodiil months ago [because i planned aspects of the story long in advance] was to have an Imperial rule that states that no weapons may be owned or worn publicly by anyone in the cities. My brother often complains that everyone in Skyrim has a knife and will try to defend themselves if someone attacks: so for his beloved Cyrodiil, we have the opposite, a world where nobody is allowed to own weapons unless they're in the Legion, the Fighters Guild or [obviously] the Dominion.)**


	13. A Dance with Thieves

**(AN: Thank you for all the reviews, it really gave me a lot of food for thought. As for why the "tone" of the stories seem to favor the Imperial side, i can only say that, at that point, my brother had almost convinced me that the lie purported by "The Bear of Markarth" was true, so part of Eirik's growth was his accepting of the negative aspects of his people as well as the positive aspects and what he would do with them. Contextually, the third story was Crixus' story, so it was told from his perspective and colored by his bias [my brother often whined that i made Crixus appear "in the wrong" so much in that story: i guess not enough for your liking]. As for content, that is the reason there is conflict in a story, because bad things happen to "good" people [also what does it matter if i'm easy or hard on the Nords? Kirkbride shat on them in _C0DA_, so it's not like anything i say or do matters, cuz in the end, the Dunmer win and the only non-Dunmer race that survives are their Khajiit slaves]. The sack of Karthwasten was permitted by the Legion [actually by the Thalmor to make the Empire look bad and further the conflict], and as for why i didn't have _every_ Nord brawl with Crixus when he goes on his usual tirades against them, that would have served my brother's argument more, showing that "oh, see? i'm right! Nords _are_ just violent brutes who pick fights with anyone!" And for him, even a small sliver of bad behavior makes hating an entire race "justifiable"_. _[also the kid he bullied wasn't a Nord; that also is significant])**

**(We're not done with Eirik, not by a long shot, but as for liberating, or trying to liberate, Eastmarch, that burden will belong to his daughter Sigrun when she comes of age. I will address this and the Reach as well in this story, but for now, we have Crixus' own demons to conquer [or will he conquer them at all? Maybe he will find relief and turn his back on it?]. So enjoy this horribly-titled chapter.)**

* * *

**A Dance With Thieves**

That evening, Crixus' sleep was disturbed by dreams. He found himself wandering through a dimly-lit house of wood and white-lime. He seemed to be looking for something, rustling through loose pages, scrolls and ledgers with words too faint and blurred for him to discern. What it was that he sought he did not know, but he knew that when he found it, he would know it. Just over his left shoulder, he could hear voices crying out "_Intruder!_" as if coming from down a long, stone tunnel. The echoes of footsteps also came up, pounding after him: for, though he did not know where he was, he knew that they were coming for him and him alone.

Instinctively he turned to face them, but suddenly the house vanished and he was in a darker place. Before him he saw two figures, one taller and the other slightly shorter. The taller one, Crixus saw, was standing upon a throne of naked bodies glistening in sweat, and was clad in black armor. It was not the rare Ebony plate and mail renowned by adventurers in Morrowind of old: no, this armor, twisted in cruel, eldritch angles and glistening red in the dim light, appeared to have been ripped off the back of one of Mehrunes Dagon's servants. The more Crixus looked, the more he saw of the two figures: the shorter one he could not see a face, but he saw that he had long dark hair and broad shoulders. The taller one was Eirik, but not the Eirik that he knew: thin and gaunt, his eyes were sunken into pits of darkness, his face was pale grey and copious amounts of blood were splattered across his face and black armor.

"You are weak and pathetic," he heard this new Eirik speak, the very ground rumbling with each step. "You let them all die because you refuse the power within you. Behold what you could truly become if you embraced your power, your birthright!"

With arms outstretched, this darker Eirik took a step backwards onto his throne of bodies. He sat down upon them, resting his feet on the head of a dragon surrounded by elvish skulls while three naked women pressed against him from the sides and from the bottom of his throne: Crixus recognized them as the Lioness, the sword-thane and the vampire Serana. From behind the throne he also saw a red-haired woman with fierce green eyes rest her head upon Eirik's shoulder.

"Take my hand," the darker Eirik said, holding his hand out to the shorter figure. "Embrace your power; become the god you were meant to be!"

Crixus saw a hand extend from the shorter figure. Inside Crixus felt with a deadly certainty that he knew what was going on here. He saw here his worst fears come to light, for surely this monster with Nord women, dragon bones and the skulls of elves around him was the embodiment of all the evil of the Nord race: the Grey Spirit made manifest. The shorter figure, from the back, looked like Eirik as he knew him, though he never saw the face before the vision faded. Inside he dreaded the inevitable: Eirik would accept the Grey Spirit's offer. The spirit was taunting him with the deaths of his friends - those damnable Stormcloaks, his band of brigands the Sons of Skyrim and his sword-thane - reminding him of his weaknesses, of his failures.

_He will accept_, Crixus thought as the vision faded. _He will accept and I will have no choice but to kill him._

When morning came, Crixus found himself in the room that had belonged to Petruvius and Lethia before their abduction. After his meeting with Lucan, he wanted to keep a level-head and think about what had transpired instead of losing himself to his lusts: he immediately regretted the choice upon awakening.

Down the stairs he went, where he found Flavia waiting for him at the bottom stair, a bundle of letters in her hands.

"These came for you this morning from the raven-keepers," she greeted with a smile.

Crixus thanked her, gave her a few septims for her trouble, then betook himself to a nice breakfast of cheese, bread and warm soup while examining the letters. Elisif's letter was not among them, nor any ransom note regarding the disappearance of his comrades. There was, however, one note that he found most intriguing. The letter was written in a flowing, thin script and at the bottom of the page, lines had been drawn from the bottom of the letters to the edge of the page. Crixus' time as prefect of Mournhold had taught him that this was a means of protection against prying eyes forging incriminating post-scripts.

_To the Arch-Mage of the new Mages Guild,_

_Greetings and salutations from a devoted sorcerer. I am aware, like yourself, that secrecy is needed in our dealings. I myself have petitioned the Emperor many times to reinstate the Mages Guild, but have always run afoul of the College of Whispers and the Synod. It is good that there are others who will not allow this banal Colovian bigotry to harm the future of magical learning and use in Tamriel any further._

_Though I understand the need to speak through these adjuncts, I feel that it would do to meet you in person. I have a list of prospects which I have found in my travels who would be ideal candidates for the Council of Mages, if you have not founded one already. If you have, I would recommend myself as a candidate. I trust that even the Dominion or the bastard mages of House Telvanni would find my skills commendable. Reply with your answer as soon as possible to the initials below, care of the Oak and Crosier in Chorrol county._

_,uoy tcetorp seloH lla fo miR eht yaM_

_T.V._

It was at this moment that Crixus realized that he had not even the foggiest idea what to do next as far as his Mages Guild was concerned. Just how much they had let on or pretended in their conversations with those in the inns of Anvil he did not know. Lethia would certainly not know anything about the Mages Guild and neither would Petruvius, who, though he could read and write, was not as educated in the history of Skyrim, Cyrodiil and Morrowind as Crixus. This 'T.V.' certainly seemed well informed, and eager to meet this Arch-Mage of the new Mages Guild and offer her service as part of his Council of Mages.

_Only there _isn't_ an Arch-Mage or a Council of Mages,_ Crixus thought. He wondered if, perhaps, Lucan would be willing to help? He certainly seemed to more know than he let on and, while secretive, Crixus was not put off by his secrecy. On the contrary, he was intrigued and wanted to know even more, despite the need for secrecy. Still it seemed foolish to assume that Lucan, though he was mysterious, to have any magical knowledge or training. He would need the advice of an experienced mage, such as Sybille Stentor.

_Dammit, Elisif, why haven't you written me back yet?_

* * *

From the Hero's Welcome, Crixus made his way immediately to the Arena. The guards let him sit at his reserved seat in Platorius' box, but Zeno himself was not present. The fight was started and the gladiators introduced by a portly majordomo: Drogon the Pale against Bram the Mountain. Bram had fought in the Arena in Windhelm prior to the War and had escaped the recent Dunmer atrocities reeked upon the Nords in the Eastmarch hold 'by the brute strength of his arm, cutting a swath of grey bodies from the gates of Windhelm to the town of Shor's Stone.' Crixus found the story to be ridiculous and incredible and, without a second thought, took it for over-embellishment.

He watched the fight that lasted for thirty minutes as Drogon and Bram started with their larger, two-handed weapons: Drogon's battle-ax against Bram's war-hammer. After ten bouts, the two threw their weapons aside and began wrestling each other with their bare hands. They were thus engaged when a man approached the guards and gave something to them. One of the guards then walked over to Crixus and gave him what the strange man had given him: a short note.

_Come to the Traven Hall in the lower city after the games. - Lord Mayor Thwyndilion_

Crixus wondered if Eddard Perrick had a hand in this matter. He certainly hadn't been doing anything to bring Count Romulus to reconciling terms with the Merchants Guild, so that a 'lord mayor' would want to speak to an outsider was strange to Crixus. Nevertheless, he knew that Lucan would be there and, perhaps, he might have more words with him thereafter.

While he was thus engaged, he saw Platorius, his Redguard liaison and two more guards approach the box. From his expression, Crixus guessed that Platorius was not in a good mood. Crixus rose from his seat and saluted him: Platorius replied with a lazy raising of his open hand, then took his seat next to Crixus.

"Thank the gods you're here," Crixus stated. "The best part is almost here!"

"I've seen it repeated for years and years," grumbled Platorius. "Apparently my dear friend Varro has not deigned to grace me with his presence, even for one game! We need a bigger spectacle." Below in the Arena, Drogon pinned the Nord under one of his large, hairy boots and turned to Platorius' box. The crowd cried for the Nord's blood, but Platorius gave Drogon the thumbs up. The crowd booed as Drogon kicked the Nord away, sparing him to fight another day.

"The rematch will be one for the ages," Platorius grimaced. "And I intend to let Bram live fight until then. I'll save the rematch for Varro when he comes."

"Do you know when he will come?" Crixus asked.

"He was away on business," Platorius replied. "Didn't even have time to see a friend. Leaving the Arena took all of the fire out of him, it seems."

Crixus nodded but did not make a reply. He was annoyed inside that even meeting the Count's steward, to say nothing of the Count himself, was taking more than he had desired. If only the Merchants Guild would be more helpful in the matter: he did, after all, have a writ of credit from Lord Mayor Signius.

He dismissed himself, then left the box to make his way out of the Arena. As he was leaving, he saw a Nord walking out of one of the lower stands towards the stairs: he knew that he was a Nord by reason of his blond hair. Angrily, Crixus felt inside the desire to seize him by the neck and squeeze until his throat cracked beneath his hands. As there were guards present, he did nothing until they were almost to the stairs. Here he hastened his pace and shoved his shoulder into the Nord's back and went down the stairs as if nothing had happened.

"I say, sir!" the Nord shouted. "Watch where you're going!"

Crixus turned around and walked back up the stairs, coming up to level footing with the Nord.

"Why don't you piss the fuck off?" Crixus asked, spitting directly into the Nord's face. "Your kind don't belong in civilized places."

"Them's fightin' words, stranger," the Nord angrily retorted.

"Like you're gonna do anything about them," Crixus laughed. "I've been to Skyrim: all of your talk about strength, honor and bravery is bull-shite! Milk-drinkers and cowards, the lot of you."

"I'll make you eat those words!" the Nord shouted. But Crixus was on his toes and ducked under as the Nord took a swing at him. With his hand, he punched the Nord in the groin, then rose to his feet and slapped the Nord on his cheeks.

"Now run along, then," Crixus taunted. "This is a place for men, not whining little b*tches."

After recovering, the Nord ran towards Crixus, his fist a-swinging. At what appeared to be the last minute, Crixus dodged aside and the Nord broke his knuckles upon the stone-work of the wall behind where Crixus had, a minute ago, been standing.

"What's that?" Crixus grinned, noticing the wince of pain on the Nord's face. "Tears? Pathetic, a crying little b*tch. You know, both your mother _and_ your sister cried...at first. I can see where you get it from."

With an angry roar, the Nord turned and ran towards Crixus, who was now standing at the top of the stairs. Waiting for the right moment, Crixus dropped to his knee with the left leg and left the right leg extended out to his right, tripping the Nord as he came running towards him. Down the stairs he tumbled, coming to a thudding rest just at the second landing. Crixus threw back his head in laughter, then walked down the stairs when he saw the Nord was not getting up. Kneeling down, he felt one of the Nord's hands: it was cold as ice. He then reached for the head and found that the neck had been broken.

"Too easy," Crixus sneered, giving the body a good kick before walking down the rest of the stairs. This death had not satisfied him, not in the way he liked his victims to die. Without a second thought or a look back, Crixus hastened the rest of the way before the guards discovered this death.

* * *

As evening was drawing near, Crixus made his way towards the southeastern end of the city, where the lower city and Traven Hall were located. He approached the door, where he saw a young Imperial man whose task it was to sit at the door and see if those who came up to enter Traven Hall had their badges of admittance. All Crixus had with him was yet another letter, this time the note that he had received in the Arena. This he showed to the Breton, who ushered him into the hall and towards a flight of wooden stairs. Up the stairs they went, coming to a short landing with a door in the wall. Two guards in the lamellar of the city guard stood watch, though their tabards bore not the black and argent wolf of Kvatch, but azure with or scales upon the field: the emblem of the Merchants Guild from the badges of admittance.

"The Lord Mayor," the Imperial man said to Crixus. "Is currently busy with another client. Here you will wait until she is available to see you."

"As you wish," Crixus stated cheekily.

"It is our way of doing things, sir," the Imperial replied.

At least an hour passed as Crixus stood or paced about the landing, waiting for the Lord Mayor to be free and open to receive him. He had quite a few questions for her, some of them, of course, involving Perrick and the Guild. He had not heard of the Merchants Guild growing up in Cyrodiil as a child or in the Legion, and they had no presence in Mournhold or Skyrim. He also wanted to ask about why he was allowed into the city so readily, and how he might be able to procure the Count's bringing the Merchants Guild back into the city when he could not even get an audience.

After the hour had passed, the doors were opened from the inside and, to Crixus' surprise, he saw Lucan shuffling out of the hall beyond.

"Ah, Crixus!" Lucan greeted. "Do you have business with the Lord Mayor? I did not expect this when we met last night at the Bloated Rat tavern."

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "I do have business."

"Then I trust your business does not take you away suddenly," Lucan replied. "For I may have news regarding, well, you know what."

Before Crixus could ask if he could or not, the young Imperial came running through the door, past Lucan, and closed the doors behind him as he went into the hall. Mere moments later, the sound of running footsteps could be heard as the doors were thrown open.

"The Lord Mayor will see you now," he said to Crixus.

"I'll wait out here," Lucan stated. "Until your business is concluded."

Crixus nodded, then followed the Imperial page into the larger hall. Within he saw massive Dunmer tapestries hanging from the rafters and tables on either sides with beautiful dishware and bowls from Hammerfell and Elsweyr. At the far end of the hall there sat, at a table, an Altmer woman with gray hair, dressed in an elegant robe of dark crimson with a golden mantle upon her shoulders.

"You are the one Perrick brought into the city," she said to Crixus, speaking in an authoritative tone. "Come closer, let me have a look at you." Crixus walked across the hall and came before the Lord Mayor's desk, where she stood up and looked at him.

"Hmm, yes," she muttered. "You have the bearing of a thief but the stance of a soldier. He certainly described you to a tee. Now, then, let's get down to business, shall we? You're doubtlessly wondering why I've called you here. As you may know, we do not offer our services or audiences free of charge."

"Yes, I've noticed," Crixus replied.

"And you have a letter of credit with you?" she asked. "Signius' letter arrived yesterday, introducing you before your arrival...or after as the case may be." She held out one of her long-fingered, slender hands. "Hand it over." Crixus removed the writ of credit from his bosom and gave it to the Lord Mayor, who ran her hands over the seal pensively before breaking it and opening the letter. After less than a minute reading it, she placed it on the table and turned back to Crixus.

"For the time being," she returned. "You will consider yourself under my charge. You will answer to me in all matters or to my secretary Perrick, and obey my instructions to the letter and without question. Brynjolf speaks very highly of you, Crixus: it would be a shame to see that his trust has been in vain."

"Brynjolf?" Crixus asked. "Did Lucan just..."

"Lucan?" she asked, gesturing towards the door. "The Spy, you mean." She chuckled. "His name is not Lucan. I've worked with him before and he has given me five different names as his own: Buto, Desideratus, Linus, Marcus, Sylvanus and now Lucan. False names are second nature to a man in his line of work. But if you want to know if he was the one who told me your name and your connection to Brynjolf, you would be wrong. In fact, I've heard of you for months now: Brynjolf has been keeping a connection with me for quite some time and he's mentioned you."

"He never mentioned you, though," Crixus returned.

"Because, publicly, my organization has no power in Skyrim," she replied. "We have no need: our goals are for Hammerfell and Morrowind, not the worthless little stretch of land between them, so poor and worth nothing for trading." She then gestured to the page, who bowed and left the room. Once he was gone, she turned back to Crixus.

"Privately, however, the different chapters of the Thieves Guild do not meddle freely in each other's affairs."

"You're with the Thieves Guild?" Crixus asked.

Thwyndilion chuckled. "How else do you think I was able to stay in Kvatch after Brachus chased us out like dogs? The fool. The Thieves Guild can never be wholly eradicated."

"I like that, see," Crixus noted. "Unfortunately, I hear that misfortune befell the Thieves Guild in Skyrim lately. Or didn't Brynjolf tell you that?"

"He informed me," she continued. "That a band of rebels drove him and the Black-Briars out of the Rift and into Cyrodiil. But things have been kinder for them all of late, thanks in no small part to our connections. The Black-Briars have set up in Cheydinhal, capitalizing on the chaos there to bring business for their new meadery, and the Thieves Guild?" She laughed. "Whoever leads the Sons of Skyrim is certainly a fool to leave Anuriel as steward of Rifton: she has some rather outstanding debts to our organization and has proved useful in the past. I give Brynjolf less than three months before he is walking back into Rifton like a conquering hero, setting up shop again."

"You certainly sound optimistic," Crixus stated.

"We serve a purpose, our Guilds," Thwyndilion replied. "The Thieves Guild serves as an agent of change: the changing of money from the hands of the unworthy into our hands. The Merchants Guild serves as an agent of stability; bringing order to chaos as the Thieves Guild brings chaos to order."

"But what about the East Empire Co.?" Crixus asked.

Thwyndilion clicked her tongue behind her lips. "That is an old story, if you will permit me to share it with you?" Crixus nodded. "After the Oblivion Crisis, Morrowind and Black Marsh left the Empire. Without their key imports, the East Empire Trading Company lost most of their power. Over time, a new union was formed to protect the Empire's economic interests at home: the Merchants Guild. Each county has a Lord Mayor who oversees guild activity in each city and coordinates overall efforts within the Guild."

"And how does the Thieves Guild figure into this?" Crixus asked again.

"During the Great War," Thwyndilion stated, leaning back in her chair. "The Merchants Guild bought up many farms and businesses whose owners were being killed or fleeing to the northern counties. With this capital, our finances grew exponentially with the Niben cities under siege and food supplies shockingly low. The Thieves Guild were very useful in this endeavor, helping to...drive our competitors out of business for us while we continued our racket. Ever since then we have worked together, including the lean times after the War and until the past few months. Now, however, things have changed."

"I know," Crixus nodded, but he kept his eyes on Thwyndilion's golden eyes. Her mentioning of the Niben cities under siege during the War brought back memories of the food riots in Bravil, where poor Count Cantilius was scarce able to keep the peace. It was his first experience with action and the horrors that war brought.

"Do you think I'm cruel?" she asked. "Or perhaps that I'm some kind of Dominion spy, stirring up trouble for you in your precious Empire?" She clicked her tongue condescendingly. "I wouldn't imagine any less from _your_ kind. Nevertheless, my interests are purely financial. If Bravil and Leyawiin had been populated by Altmer, what our two guilds did during the War would have been no less needful and no less lauded by me." She then rose from her desk, picking up the writ of credit.

"Now then," she continued. "I had Perrick give you the letter of passage so that you could come into the city and convince Count Romulus to formally welcome us back into Kvatch."

"Why do you need me?" Crixus asked. "You're certainly able to be in the city without his permission."

"Only as Lord Mayor and Shadow-foot of the Thieves Guild," she replied. "If grain prices started going up without his leave..." She grinned knowingly. "...and without him receiving the revenue therefrom, there would be an investigation. We're clever, but he has Varro on his side."

"Publius Varro," Crixus noted.

"The same," Thwyndilion returned. "The Count may be a perverted and decadent fool, but Varro is cunning and ruthless: a dangerous man even by elvish standards. Removing him would go a long way to weakening the Count's power and allowing us to return, or at least to put a new steward in office, one whose ear is more helpful to our plight."

"And you think," Crixus asked. "That I can do this through the Arena?"

"It is very likely," Thwyndilion replied. "Surely you have seen the gladiator Drogon the Pale?"

"Yes, I've seen him fight," Crixus nodded.

"Then perhaps it would interest you to know," Thwyndilion stated. "That they have a bit of history together, Drogon and Varro. Placing them together would, at the very least, have occasion for...something to happen. The rest is menial and pointless: we charge Platorius double since he's not with the Guild, he still gets his winnings and we get back into the city one way or another." She then took a seat at her desk. "Here, I will write you out a note for two thousand septims. This will surely catch the Count's attention for how lucrative the Arena can be, and he will have no choice but to send Varro to investigate on his behalf."

"Good," Crixus nodded. "So I just keep doing what I've been doing? No problem with that."

"There is one thing, however," she returned. "I would like to see your...other skills in action, those which Brynjolf praises."

"Is that right?" Crixus asked.

"As you can see," Thwyndilion replied, holding her hand out to the fine trophies scattered about the hall. "I am a collector of rare and valuable items. If you look around carefully, you will see a stone bust that is missing something: the Cowl of the Grey Fox. Perhaps you may have heard the story? A powerful thief stole the very cowl off of Nocturnal's back, granting him all of the daedric prince's luck and skill as a thief and a shadow. Such a treasure is a piece of great history and renown for any thief, and its power alone is staggering."

Crixus nodded, though in his thought he wondered if the power of the Cowl of the Grey Fox was equal to or even close to that of the Skeleton Key.

"But, as you will doubtless see," Thwyndilion returned. "The Cowl is missing. I would very much like to have it back, thank you very much."

"Alright, so where do I start?"

"Speak to the spy you called Lucan," Thwyndilion stated. "I understand he has also undertaken this task. I am placing you two together: it would be an interesting spectacle, to see how the lone wolf fares with another."

After they had finished speaking, Thwyndilion arose and gave Crixus the note for two thousand septims. He was then dismissed, and went back through the hall towards the doors he had entered. Looking around, he saw a place by two large Dwemer chalices where there was a stone bust that was bare. This, he deemed, was what the Altmer Lord Mayor had spoken of: the Cowl of the Grey Fox. Once he passed through the doors, he saw Lucan the Spy rising up to meet him.

"How did it go, if I may ask?" he queried. Crixus told him what he had been told and then concluded by asking him about the Cowl of the Grey Fox.

"Yes," he replied uneasily. "I'm not certain how this will help us, for the trail of my quarry seems to have grown cold around Skingrad. However, there are rumors that the Grey Fox has been sighted again in the counties. If one were aware of the nature of the Grey Cowl of Nocturnal, this might shed some light on her disappearance. But let us retreat to the Bloated Rat to continue this conversation."

* * *

The Bloated Rat was within a stone's throw from Traven Hall and Crixus and Lucan were there shortly after concluding their business with Lord Mayor Thwyndilion. Upon entering, they ordered drinks - mulled wine for Lucan and beer for Crixus - then found themselves a seat in a secluded part of the inn. While they were sitting down, Crixus heard a minstrel of the Scenarist Guild strike up his lyre and begin one of the Five Songs of the Hero, the lay of the Hero of Kvatch. With the new-found revelation in his mind, he turned his attention to the song being sung.

_The gates of hell opened that day_  
_As the Septim's blood-line failed_  
_Hordes of Oblivion charged upon us_  
_As our foe at last unveiled_

_The brave men of Kvatch they fought_  
_To keep back the hordes of hell_  
_In Deadlands trapped, the bells they heard_  
_Of the city, tolling their knell_

_Then all alone, he strode in through_  
_The fiery gates to bring them back_  
_Now we raise our drinks to praise_  
_The faceless Hero of Kvatch_

A general cheer rose from the crowd in the Bloated Rat as they rose their cups once the song concluded. Crixus also gave a gentle lifting of his own cup before he turned back to Lucan and drank from his cup.

"Does the song interest you?" Lucan asked. "I did not think you much of a type for stories."

"The Hero of Kvatch's story is an intriguing one," Crixus replied. "She defeated a daedric prince and his armies all with her own strength and skill at arms: no powers, magic or godly help at the very end. Now that is the stuff true heroes are made of."

"'She?'" Lucan queried, an eyebrow raising inquisitively. "You think the Hero of Kvatch was a woman?"

"That may have been the case," Crixus stated with a chuckle, trying hard not to remember the raven-haired, fair-skinned woman with the dragon's eyes, table filled with entrails and cheese and the Wabbajack in her hands; the one he and Eirik had encountered in the dungeons of Blacklight.

"Now then," Crixus said after a short pause. "You were talking about the nature of the Grey Cowl of Nocturnal?"

"It is a mystery," Lucan stated. "Even to those within the Thieves Guild, like Lord Mayor Thwyndilion and Brynjolf. Outside, it's more of a myth than anything else, like those about the Dragonborn in Skyrim. As far as I know, there was supposed to be some kind of curse on the cowl, though there is some debate as to whether that curse was wholly removed or not."

"And what was the curse?" Crixus asked.

"Once the wearer put on the mask," Lucan replied. "They vanished entirely. All written records were erased, all names vanished, all memory faded: they became the Grey Fox and were recognized only as the Grey Fox. Now, as I said, the person I have been seeking may have been involved in the Thieves Guild in the region, but disappeared somewhere in Skingrad."

"Do you think your person stole the Cowl and wore it?" Crixus asked.

"It is a strong possibility," Lucan nodded. "That is why it would be worthwhile to seek out rumors of the Grey Fox in which ever city you plan to visit next."

"I see," Crixus mused. He had no plans of leaving Kvatch any time soon: he still had his duties with Platorius and the Merchants Guild, he had not yet received his letter from Elisif and his companions were still missing. "Well, if you will permit me, there is something I would like to ask of you."

"If you insist," Lucan groaned, clearly uneasy with sharing anything he believed to be personal information.

"It's not about you," Crixus stated. "It's about, well, the Mages Guild."

"The Mages Guild?" Lucan asked. "There hasn't been a Mages Guild for two hundred years."

"Then it's about time it made a comeback, don't you think?" Crixus asked.

"What I think is irrelevant," Lucan replied. "You believe that there is a problem, that the Mages Guild is lacking in Tamriel. Are you prepared to do what it takes to see that problem rectified and accept the consequences?"

"What would I have to do?" Crixus asked.

"If memory and my history lessons serve," Lucan mused, stroking his thin beard. "There would need to be an Arch-Mage, the Council of Mages which rule over the Guild - five arch-magisters including the Arch-Mage - and a guild charter signed by someone of authority."

"Would the Emperor's signature do?" Crixus asked.

At this, Lucan's dark, piercing eyes fell upon Crixus in careful examination. "There are some who say that the Elder Council has the power these days. And to win their favor, you must win out over the Synod and the College of Whispers, both of which have been vying for centuries for influence and favor with the Emperor and the Elder Council. It would not be an easy task."

"But one that can be done," Crixus stated.

"You know," Lucan pointed out, holding up one finger. "It would be hard to convince the Elder Council to agree to this. In the days of the Septims, the Arch-Mage had a seat on the Elder Council; now neither the Synod nor the College of Whispers has a place on the Council. Legitimizing a new Mages Guild would require the Elder Council to accept a new member, which would not be well-accepted by the masses."

"Hmm," Crixus noted.

"Of course," Lucan said, gazing at Crixus with a knowing glance. "If one were to have the support of the House of Nobles on their side, the Elder Council might be more...amiable."

"I've heard that before," Crixus stated. "Just what is the House of Nobles?"

"It is a blanket term," Lucan replied. "For all of the counts in Cyrodiil: Countess Maro of Anvil, Count Romulus, the Count of Skingrad, Count Fraseric of Chorrol, Count Edvald of Bruma, Countess Sarys of Cheydinhal, Count Cantilius of Bravil and Countess Caro of Leyawiin. They are referred to as a unified house, though none of them are related and they are by no means united. Their own counties and personal ambitions govern them, but, to the Elder Council, they are collectively called the House of Nobles."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "And what would one be able to do if one had the support of them all?"

Lucan chuckled. "Anything. That is what the Hero of Kvatch did in the lays and old stories. But it is incredible and fantastic to assume that the House of Nobles could possibly put aside their own ambitions and fears of treachery to unite, even for a moment." Crixus nodded quietly and Lucan grinned.

"What are you planning, Crixus?" he asked.

"Something big," he returned.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance?" Lucan offered.

"You?" Crixus asked. "I thought you said you were loyal."

"And so I am," he returned. "To the Empire, not to their ruler."

"To be loyal to the Empire _is_ to be loyal to its ruler," Crixus stated.

"And if that ruler is incapable of ruling, what then?" Lucan asked. "I am not like the others, who go along just to get along and love their masters even though they burden and oppress them."

"Careful, friend," Crixus stated. "You may go too far in your words."

"Too far?" Lucan grinned. "I have not yet gone far enough. And neither have you."

"Me?" Crixus asked. "Why are you dragging me into this?"

"Because you can see the problem as well," he returned. "I can see it in your eyes. And yet you have no desire to change it: why is that? Do you not love your Empire?"

"No one loves the Empire more than I do, _no _one!" Crixus shouted a bit too loudly. Several faces in the crowd in the inn turned towards them, and Lucan waved them away. As the patrons turned their heads, Crixus turned back to his companion. "That is precisely why it should be preserved and not changed."

"Hmm, interesting," Lucan mused. "We must certainly have more such conversations in the future, yes? Perhaps I can join you at the Arena and we can talk over the bloody sport of gladiators?"

Crixus nodded, looking away from Lucan's piercing dark eyes. Something in the way he was looking at him made Crixus fear that this man - Lucan, Desideratus or whatever he was called - knew more about him, Servius Crixus, than he desired to let on. But even this made Crixus more intrigued: how had he learned so much? Whatever the answer, it would have to come tomorrow. Tonight, however, Crixus decided to return to the Hero's Welcome and spend another night alone. There were other letters he had to read and things he would have to sort out since he didn't have his companions to do those for him. He finished his drink in silence, dropped a few coins on the table for his trouble, then bade farewell to Lucan and left the Bloated Rat.

As he was on his way through the lower city, he heard the sound of someone being robbed further down the street. He turned away and went on down his own path: it was none of his business and he had no weapon to contest a share of the stolen booty. Something he learned in his time in Kvatch was that the weapons ban did not necessarily stop violent crime in the city. In fact, he found that there was more crime happening on a regular basis in the streets than in Skyrim.

_No,_ Crixus shook his head, turning towards the Chapel of Akatosh. _Rifton was certainly worse. And weapons should be in the hands of the guards or the Legion: normal people don't need them, and Nords need them even less._

He paused in his pace as he went by the Chapel of Akatosh, one of the oldest places in Kvatch. It had been three days since his arrival in Kvatch and he had not yet received a vision of sorts from the dragon-god. Perhaps it was best that he didn't: he didn't need any more evidence that the Divines were real. It was much more convenient to believe that the Divines were impersonal, indifferent and intangible spirits that could not interact with Mundus: it made disobeying, neglecting and defying them easier. Nevertheless, he found himself going back to them, especially after the insurrection with the Dominion in Skyrim. Before crossing the main road to the Hero's Welcome, he made one last look back at the old chapel. Thinking about the Divines filled his heart with doubt, and he hated doubt and indecision greatly. Too inconvenient.

Into the Hero's Welcome he went and up the stairs, right and then down the hall. A new door had been placed in his room after the attack on the inn, and this was, thankfully, closed after he left that morning. Removing his key, he placed it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. As it swung back, Crixus almost thanked the Divines for the sight he saw waiting for him at the little table in his rented room.

Silenius Petruvius and Lethia the last of the Falmer were sitting there, alive and well.

* * *

**(AN: Omg, Petruvius and Lethia suddenly sprung out of prison! How did this happen? We'll find out in the next chapter! Also what did you think of my song? It's part of a five-part song cycle of the Hero of Kvatch [lyrics are mine, but haven't got a melody for it])**

**(I would like to add, just as an aside that will eventually play out further in the story, that one of Crixus' "minor" flaws is his vanity. This comes from the disagreement my brother and i had over Crixus' visual appearance: being the one writing, i went for the typical modern anti-hero with a Sam Worthington/Liam McIntyre look, whereas he - please save your _Spartacus_ jokes for the next chapters - went for Manu Bennett from, well you know. I didn't like this since Eirik is supposed to be the Conan-sized strong-man and Crixus, in contrast, is smaller and more agile, preferring the bow and subterfuge over muscling it out with much larger opponents. Therefore Crixus is, somewhat, unhappy with the way he looks: he would see himself as the strong man with the full head of hair and broad shoulders [this is significant to the story, but i can't say for fear of spoiling it]. On a less existential note, it also served as a warning for those who, in the last two stories, kept nagging me to make Eirik OP and have him summon dragons for every problem [attacked by a skeever? summon a dragon! Mjoll is missing? summon a dragon! butt itches? summon a dragon!], because, after all, absolute power corrupts absolutely.)**


	14. Fire in the Darkness

**(AN: There are two things i would like to talk about before this chapter begins. The first one was one that i left out of the author's notes from the last chapter because they were starting to get quite lengthy. It is my personal belief that the Nords in the Legion are either whipped like Rikke and Hadvar or malignant like Idolaf. Sort of like that stupid _Clerks-Return of the Jedi_ argument: no independent contractor would knowingly put his time and effort into building a weapon of mass destruction [then again, there would be no independent contractors since the Galactic Empire would own all the industry]. My brother wanted Torgrim in my story because he was one of his secondary non-Dragonborn characters from _Skyrim_ [back when he actually played the game, he'd avoid the main quest-line like the plague], though his only role is of a whipped Nord who supports the bad guys and is the big strong man.)**

**(I actually forgot my second point, but i thought up of another one that i kind of hold both _Oblivion_ and the _Dragonborn_ DLC over the fire regarding. In _Morrowind_, House Hlaalu were depicted as the scum of the earth because they were on good terms with the Empire [despite being racist and elitist, Redoran is always viewed as "honorable", the same with Telvanni, Dres and the others]. However, in both _Oblivion_ and _Dragonborn_, this never changes. My brother likes this because he believes that, regardless of point of view, some things should never change [ie. the Empire must ALWAYS be the good guys and there must ALWAYS be a Mages Guild, Fighters Guild and a living, thriving Vvardenfell]: how come since _Oblivion_ is set in the heart of the Empire, Hlaalu is not viewed in a better light instead of having nothing but cutthroats and necrophiliacs? Anyhow, the next chapter awaits [originally entitled "T.V." after the mysterious letter-writer, but since that was too close to Television - and the TV-heads of _C0DA - _i decided on a title change])**

* * *

**Fire in the Darkness  
**

Crixus was surprised to see them standing there and took a step back. Upon closer inspection, they seemed to be no worse off for ware. Both of them were still dressed in the clothes they had been wearing when he last remembered seeing them and no great harm was upon their persons. When they saw Crixus standing in the door, Petruvius rose to his feet and saluted in the Imperial fashion. Lethia walked towards Crixus and touched his face with her hands: it was not a sign of affection, but rather a greeting passed down by her race through centuries in darkness where sight and speech failed them.

"Wh-What is this?" he stammered. "Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Petruvius spoke first, rising from his seat. "We were kidnapped, must have been a week ago."

"The night of the attack," Crixus nodded.

"Yes, there was an attack," Petruvius replied. "I remembered hearing the commotion and feared you were in danger. But once I reached for my sword, they blew the door open and took us."

"Who took you?" Crixus asked.

"Men in blue robes hemmed with gold," said Petruvius.

_So it _was_ the Synod_, Crixus thought.

"Did they use magic on you?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "But Lethia here, she must have killed two or three before they finally got her."

"Got you?" Crixus asked. "Are you alright?"

"Why should you care, slave?" Lethia retorted.

"Nice to see you too," Crixus said through clenched teeth. "I care because you're the last of the Snow Elves, and it would be a great loss for us all if something were to happen to you."

"If something happens to me," Lethia stated. "It will be the will of Auri-El."

"So what happened after that?" Crixus asked. "Where were you taken?"

"Someplace outside the city," Petruvius continued. "We didn't see at first, for after the attack, we were bound, gagged and had sacks thrown over our heads, which weren't removed until we were thrown into the dungeon and our things taken from us."

"What things?" Crixus asked, worry in his voice. "Did they see Lethia? Do they know..."

"I don't know, sir," Petruvius shook his head. "They didn't speak to us or ask us any questions, they just kept us locked up in the cell. A servant came in to give us food, but he never spoke to us. He seemed rather frightful, though, always shaking and shivering as he came into the cell. I couldn't get anything out of him."

"How did you escape?" Crixus asked.

"We were rescued," Petruvius continued. "I don't know by who, I never saw his face."

"_Her_ face," Lethia interjected.

"'Her?'" Crixus asked.

"We disagree on the identity of our rescuer," Petruvius replied.

"Didn't you see a face?" Crixus asked. "Didn't they speak to you?"

"No, sir, on both accounts," Petruvius shook his head. "It happened today, I think, around sunset. A figure, hooded and cloaked in such a manner that his body could not be discerned..."

"_Her_ body," Lethia added.

"...entered the dungeon and unlocked our cell with a spell," Petruvius continued. "Then he gestured for us to follow him and he led us out of the dungeon and into the woods north of town, where we made our way back."

"How did you get back into the city?" Crixus asked.

"Our rescuer showed us a tunnel that went from out of the city to the Chapel of Akatosh," Petruvius concluded. "We were able to sneak into the city and make our way here without being seen. Whoever he was, though, he seemed to be very powerful and have an intimate knowledge of the city."

"_She_, slave," Lethia retorted. "I saw the way she bore herself, and it was not in the manner of men."

"I think that was part of _his_ disguise," Petruvius riposted. "Act like a woman so our captors would spend their time looking for one and never know his true identity."

"I'm not so certain," Lethia replied. "That men are clever enough to do that, especially slave men. Ultimately, though, you can pretend to walk like a lady all you want, but you have something that we lack that makes our stance unique to us and us alone."

"Yes, we all know," Crixus chuckled. "It's like nothing's ever changed with you two." He entered the room and went straight to the bed, under which he kept the letters he had received from the birds-men. These he removed and sorted until he found one in particular.

"What do you think happened, sir?" Petruvius asked. "Why were we kidnapped and taken prisoner?"

"Because the Synod was trying to get to me," Crixus replied. "Apparently while you were being kidnapped, I was attacked. No one was hurt, except the Synod mages I apparently killed."

"Apparently, sir?" Petruvius inquired. "Don't you know?"

"Not exactly," Crixus evasively replied. No one save Hermaeus Mora, perhaps, knew everything that happened at the summit of Apocrypha that one time when Crixus went in alone. Even Eirik, who knew that Crixus had gone alone and lost, knew nothing else beyond it. How much Crixus himself remembered, however, was another issue which he found troublesome to say the least. These visions certainly weren't helping, especially since...

"What is it, sir?" Petruvius asked. Crixus was staring vacantly towards the wall, having stopped after those last two words.

"Huh?" he shook his head. "Uh, nothing. I-I was just thinking very intently on something."

"Why would the Synod be after us, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with your attempts at reforming the Mages Guild, would it now?" Lethia asked in a coy, playful tone.

"Don't get cute with me, elf," Crixus retorted. "I haven't hit something in hours and my hand is itching."

"Sir, if I may..."

"No, you may not!" Crixus retorted, frustration rising as he threw the letters onto the bed. "Gods, you two are supposed to be obeying me, not questioning me, not criticizing me! Do I have to send you away and find other people who will do as I say and speak only when spoken to?"

"I was only going to suggest, sir," Petruvius, unflinchingly, replied. "That, maybe, violence is not always the answer in these moments."

"If this b*tch wants to keep calling me slave," Crixus sneered. "And treat me like some kind of retarded Nord child, then she deserves every busted lip and bruised eye that I can give her until she shuts the fuck up."

"Only violence is your way," Lethia commented. "Hard to believe you're not a Nord."

Crixus lunged at her, hand balled up in a fist and raised for the attack, but Petruvius strode in between them.

"Get out of my way, boy!" Crixus threatened. "This b*tch needs to be taught a lesson!"

"I can't let you do that, sir," Petruvius shook his head.

"You're defying my orders, squire!" Crixus stated. "Do I need to whip you for insubordination?"

"I'll gladly take whatever lashes you give me," Petruvius retorted. "But there will be no violence, not tonight, at least. We've only just been liberated from prison only to come here and be bullied and beaten into silence? I-I won't have it, sir!"

With a frustrated growl, Crixus' hand relaxed. "Gods," he muttered. "I was better off in Skyrim, traveling all by myself."

"I'm sorry, sir," Petruvius stated. "But I have nowhere else to go, you know that. My family was killed when the prefecture in Mournhold was attacked."

"Then maybe you should be a little more obedient?" Crixus suggested. "You two are like Eirik; every time you open your mouth, it's just to force me into a rage."

Lethia spat on the floor and said something in her native tongue, which they did not understand. Crixus, meanwhile, walked over to the letters he had thrown down and picked up the one he had intended on presenting.

"What can you tell me about alias T.A.?" Crixus asked.

"We've never met him, or her," Petruvius replied. "Whoever he, she or they are, they've operated through messengers and personal representatives, whatever that means. They've seemed very interested in what we were planning."

"And what did you tell them about us?" Crixus asked.

"Well, nothing, sir," Petruvius returned. "Mostly because we were stumped. T.A. seemed to know more about the Mages Guild than anyone: I had to look up old books on Imperial history to get any kind of information on what T.A. was asking of us."

"I think we might be in trouble here," Crixus stated. "It's a bit too convenient, if you ask me."

"What is, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"When did your first correspondence with T.V. begin?" Crixus asked.

"In Anvil," Lethia stated. "Her servants appeared to me and began asking me questions about the Mages Guild. Since I didn't know them, I brought them to his attention..." She nodded to Petruvius."

"...but even I couldn't answer all of the questions that T.V. put to his or her servant," Petruvius completed.

"As I said," Crixus began. "This is all too convenient. This T.V. is obviously a false name for a Synod spy who found us out. And we fucking told them that we were going to the Hero's Welcome in Kvatch, that's why they knew where we would be! Then they come in, capture you and miss me, then T.V. sends this letter, hoping to lure me unawares to Chorrol where they have an ambush waiting for me." He groaned, rubbing his hands over his head: it was course and bristly, the hairs of his head growing back in after a long time without cutting.

"Are you sure they are worth your consideration?" Lethia asked. "It might not be an issue. After all, the Thalmor cannot be everywhere, why can the Synod?"

"Don't get cute with me, b*tch," Crixus retorted. "Because Petruvius can't watch you all the time, and one day he'll be away and I'll teach you a lesson you won't soon forget!"

"Sir, I must insist!" Petruvius shouted, stepping once again between the two of them.

Crixus grumbled beneath his breath, "I'm surrounded by imbeciles!" before taking a moment to breathe and calm himself down. "Alright, look, it doesn't matter what I think in the end. They attacked us, they kidnapped you two, that's more than enough for me. From here on in, the Synod are not to be trusted. I want you to burn every letter you get from T.V., don't even open them! Tell no one of where we're staying, and only leave the Hero's Welcome at the utmost need, under cover of darkness or hooded and concealed."

"Why, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"We've been too careless this far," Crixus stated. "We need to take to the shadows, be unseen." He sighed. "It seems that Cyrodiil has become more dangerous than I anticipated."

* * *

After meeting them again, Crixus went to Flavia's house. His last minute decision to indulge himself doubtless came from the arguing he had with them. Long after Flavia, exhausted from the exertion, had fallen asleep, Crixus remained awake. The act rarely excited great pleasure for him, having been so frequented as one might breathe. But his thoughts were elsewhere as well, not merely in the room. He wondered why Petruvius and Lethia continued to defy and annoy him. Things would be so much simpler if everyone were of his mind: no Nords, no gods, no contrary opinions, just uniformity. All of the Empire's problems would be over, he mused, and a new world of higher heights and greater possibilities would be opened to them.

His mind drifted back to the Mages Guild, to Lucan, the state of the Empire, his brother and T.V. He would have to discern whether or not the other names on those letters were genuine or whether they were fabrications made by the Synod. Why the Synod would target him, of course, was another issue. Officially, as far as he had heard in the taverns in Anvil and Kvatch, the Synod's purpose was to "bring magic to the people", whatever that meant. But his own experience showed that they were bringing far more than magicka to the people: that they had attacked him in the first place showed that their goals did not include bringing magic to any people outside of the Synod. He would have to learn why they were after them and bring it to an end: which might involve walking into T.V.'s trap and springing it in order to capture him or her as well.

What Lucan had mentioned about reforming the Empire also stung him. He remembered Thelgil and the Emperor speaking of how Cyrodiil had changed. He did not want to believe it, of course: the Empire was the only hope for order in Tamriel. If the Empire fell, who would bring order? The arrogant Redguards who were so puffed up they decided they could live _without_ the Empire? The Bretons whose feudal system kept them ever at war with each other (in Evermore, he remembered hearing rumors of fighting farther west, though his concerns were in the east), or the barbaric Nords who loved war and death as much as normal people - namely Imperial people - loved peace and life? No, the Empire was the only hope for reason, justice and civilization in a world of barbarians.

_Some,_ he thought inside. _Might judge the things we did in Skyrim as barbaric. But they are wrong. We did what we had to do to keep the peace, to restore order, to save the Empire._

As for his brother, Venerius Crixus, he hadn't seen him since he ran away from home to join the Legion. There had been no word during his time in the Legion, the antebellum in Hammerfell or his exile in Mournhold of his whereabouts; not even so much as a rumor. Much to his chagrin, the only rumors of Venerius' existence were to be found in Skyrim, among the Silver Hand. But now the Silver Hand were dead, slaughtered mercilessly by Eirik's group of thugs. The last he heard Venerius might still be alive, though this hope also was faint and fading, like the lights dancing in front of his eyes...

The room around him grew dim and the lights were now the only things he could see, torches sitting along the walls of a dark corridor. He could feel their cold, dry surface passing between the fingers of his outstretched hand. Why he could not, or would not, summon a ball of candlelight he did not know. But he was still going, looking for something, anything. The last time...the last time. Had there been a last time? He had never been here before, had he? Yet the methodical way in which he felt the wall seemed not as though he was groping for his way in the darkness, but as if he was counting the bricks in the masonry around him, feeling for something.

At last he paused, his hand feeling a strange symbol on one of the bricks, something like an eye with five rays. Gently he pushed in and one of the torches to his left began to flicker. That portion of the wall came sliding backwards, in upon itself, as if opening up into a secret room. Carefully he peered into the chasm left by the swinging door, opening into a darkened room. At this he cast his candlelight spell and the dark room was flooded with magical illumination. Inside he found many bookcases filled with tomes, grimoires and scrolls of all shapes and sizes. Quickly he perused through them until he found a tome which he removed and began to open when suddenly he heard a familiar voice.

"_Intruder! Intruder!_"

To his surprise, he saw his hand go out and shock the blue-robed mage with bolts of lightning before hastily making his way back out of the room and down the corridor. He ran and ran, then suddenly there was a burst of heat...

When Crixus awoke, he found himself lying in Flavia's bed. It was all a dream. He breathed a sigh of relief, then suddenly realized that the back of his left leg was in great pain. Casting his eyes down, he saw that the back of his leg had been burned. Immediately shock began to overtake him: not merely at receiving so heavy a wound, but because the last thing he remembered was the burst of heat. The dream couldn't have been real, it just couldn't!

The small tome _Mysticism_ lying underneath his left hand, however, proved him wrong.

* * *

The morning of the thirteenth day of Heartfire had not yet even dawned and already bad things had happened to Crixus. Taking a wash-cloth from the basin by Flavia's bed-side and stuffing it in his mouth, Crixus pulled himself out of bed, hobbled down the stairs and left her house as quietly as he could, though his every movement of his left leg caused him great pain. As soon as he passed the doors, however, he could hear commotion coming from the lower city to the east. Guards were shouting and some were running through the streets directly behind Flavia's house. Something had happened in the middle of the night.

Summoning all of his strength and resilience, Crixus hobbled across the courtyard, passed into the inn and made his way up the stairs to their room. At the door, he knocked three times, hoping that Petruvius had not fallen asleep on his watch.

"Who is it?" Petruvius asked.

Crixus ripped the cloth out of his mouth and hissed. "It's me, open the fucking door!"

The sound of a single dead-bolt being removed was heard and Petruvius opened the door to find his master pale and sweating, leaning against the door and favoring his left leg.

"What happened, sir?" Petruvius asked. "Are you alright?"

"Wake her," Crixus hissed, pointing to Lethia. "Then come with me."

"Where are we going?" Petruvius asked as he walked over to the corner where Lethia lay, curled up in a ball.

"Someplace the Synod won't be watching," Crixus hissed.

As far as Crixus knew, Lethia was the only one of them who might have some inkling of magical prowess. However, as their abduction proved, the Synod knew where they were and would doubtless be watching them, waiting for another slip-up. It was a long shot, of course, but he had been in the dark Dwemer halls beneath Skyrim's frozen ground and had seen the Falmer before in their own domains. Some of them, he had seen, laying their hands upon some lying on the ground in blind agony. His hunch was that this was some kind of healing ritual and he hoped that Lethia had that knowledge as well: if not, he might as well turn himself in to the Synod. Whatever Shout Eirik had used to cure Lethia of whatever curse or magic that had deformed her race, Crixus had, much to his regret, never learned it.

So it was that the three of them, some time around four o'clock in the morning, were tip-toeing down the stairs into the common room. It was bare of customers and swept clean, thanks to Flavia and her servants last night before Crixus wanted a private audience. Crixus, once again gagged with the cloth, gestured with his hands to where Petruvius would take him, for his servant supported him by letting Crixus wrap his left arm around the young man's shoulders. Lethia refused to work like a slave and so quietly followed on behind.

He directed them to the bar, where there was a door behind the counter. Before leaving Flavia's house, Crixus had swiped her keys from the nail above her bed where she had left them and gave them to Petruvius to open the door therewith. Once the door creaked open, he gestured in and the two walked down into a narrow, stone corridor that led down into the cellar. With his free hand, Crixus summoned a ball of candlelight and used his left hand to order Petruvius down.

Into the cellar they came, where Petruvius rested Crixus between the wall and a large stack of barrels marked with a harp and a cluster of grapes. Once he was lying down, Crixus extended his left leg as slowly as he could, then tore the rag once again from his mouth.

"Lethia, come here," he gestured.

"What do you want, slave?" she asked.

"Do you know any healing magic?" he asked.

"I may know a spell or two," she evasively answered. "But why should I help you? You've threatened to do me harm for disagreeing with you."

"It'll be worse than a bruised lip," Crixus hissed. "If I die over this wound."

"You won't die, sir," Petruvius stated. "This shouldn't be fatal, so long as we..."

"I'm useless without my legs," Crixus groaned. "And there's no time to seek out a healer, especially with the Synod controlling all magicka in the city." Gasping, he turned to Lethia. "You know...if I go, you won't last very long."

Lethia was silent as she knelt down besides Crixus. She took hold of his left leg with her left hand and turned it on its side to expose the burn; none too gently of course, though her hood concealed the smile on her face as Crixus winced in pain at her roughness. Her right hand then extended out over the burn and she began to chant in a low voice. From her hand there appeared a soft glow which began to coalesce around Crixus' left leg. This she repeated for about a minute before releasing her hand and holding it in the air.

"The rag, slave!" she demanded.

"You heard her, Petruvius," Crixus stated to his servant.

"I was not talking to him," Lethia retorted.

The young man looked at the elf woman in surprise, as did Crixus. It was as close as any of them had heard her come to a kind word spoken to either of them. Angrily that he had once again been called a slave, he picked up the wash-cloth and threw it at Lethia. With a harrumph, she picked it up and began to bind Crixus' leg with it.

"The healing spell," she replied. "Will take three days to fully heal your leg, but the pain is lessened and you will be able to walk upon it."

"Three days?" Crixus demanded.

"That is fast for this kind of work, slave," she retorted. "Normally, healing spells of this nature take weeks. This spell was a hasty one, but the damage to your leg was severe. And there are limits to what healing spells can fix."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked.

"They can't regrow severed limbs," she retorted. "Or set bones, mend broken bones or bring back the dead. Even a mortal wound would be a difficult task to abate for a very powerful healer. The least they can do is to dull the pain until the final moments."

"Convenient," Crixus muttered.

"The rules of magic," she retorted. "Are far beyond the comprehension of _human_ minds, slave. I don't expect _you_ to understand or accept them the way my people do. Now, then, if we haven't awoken half the inn, would you tell us why you were getting yourself burned? This looks magical in nature."

"Was it the Synod, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I..." Crixus stammered, the anger seeping out of his body. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Lethia retorted.

"Just that," he replied. "I was asleep, dreaming about a corridor, then the next thing I know I woke up and my leg was burned."

"What were you dreaming about?" Lethia asked, her tone suddenly wary and suspicious.

"Look, what does it matter?" she asked.

"Answer me, slave, what were you dreaming about?" she asked, her voice growing harder and more demanding.

"I was inside a corridor, looking around," Crixus said. "I...I found a secret library, there was this book..." He had left it back in Flavia's room.

"You stole a book?" Petruvius asked.

"I didn't even know where I was!" Crixus retorted. "I thought I was dreaming!"

"Dreams are one of the ways the gods speak to us, slave," Lethia responded, her voice solemn and fearful. "They reveal things to us, whether it be the future, the past, or their will for us in the present."

Crixus sighed. "Whatever. You know how I feel about your gods and Divines."

"You may not believe in them, slave," she replied. "But they believe in you."

Crixus rolled his eyes. "Look, just make sure the door stays closed, alright? I don't want to be disturbed until the morning."

"Shall I go and get your book, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"No, you'll only wake Flavia up," Crixus retorted. "I'll get it when I can and show it to you tonight, after the games. For now..." He reclined against the barrels. "I have to rest. I'm exhausted."

"Do you not know what happened in your dream?" Lethia asked. "Can you not remember?"

"The corridor, the book," Crixus went over in his mind as Petruvius walked back up the stairs to close them. "Then I was attacked and...no." He shook his head. "That's all I can remember." His head was growing light and lolled onto his left shoulder; he saw a very large flag-stone on the floor, larger than the rest of the tiles. It was not so much the size as that he beheld some writing upon it that was covered by the barrels nearby. He called for Petruvius to move the barrels that he might read, but just then his candlelight spell dissipated. Crixus summoned it again, but it was much fainter and flickered.

"Hurry up, will you?" Crixus asked his squire. "I can barely keep this up."

"Have you drunk anything?" Lethia asked.

"Not since last night," he returned.

"Do you feel thirsty and dry?" she asked again.

"Yes, I do feel drained," Crixus replied.

"You'll need to drink something, then," she stated. "And not any of your spirits; those do more harm than good in this matter. You need water."

"Water?" Crixus scoffed. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Very serious," Lethia retorted. "Mages and shaman were always given first ration of clean water when it could be found. Using our powers dries us out. I'm surprised no one told you this before."

"Give me a break," Crixus groaned, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Mock all you want," she replied. "But the truth is the truth."

"Hurry up, there!" Crixus ordered his servant. "All I have to alleviate the boredom is this b*tch."

Petruvius managed, after moving several barrels out of the large rack, to push it back until the large flag-stone's flat surface could be seen. The writing was in the Common Tongue and language, with the date up at the top: _3E 433, 3 HF._ Upon seeing the date, Crixus leaned over and held the candlelight to the flag-stone, while Lethia and Petruvius, like curious children, gazed in at what had been found. It seemed that a small record had been set here in stone more than two hundred years ago concerning events that had happened in Kvatch.

_On this day, the third of Heartfire, 3E 433, Valeria Vulcanis bravely lifted the siege of the demonic hordes upon the city of Kvatch and closed the jaws of Oblivion. I, Anhilde the Knight, daughter of Bram the Red, did raise this stone from the ruin of the city to stand witness to her bravery and fighting skill._

"Who are these names?" Lethia asked.

"I've heard of Vulcanis before," Crixus stated. "She was the Hero of Kvatch."

"She, sir?" Petruvius asked. "The old stories never said she was a she."

"I happen to know for certain," Crixus replied.

"Well, pardon me for asking, sir, but how could you know?" Petruvius asked. "The Hero of Kvatch lived over two hundred years ago."

"I'm...related to her, distantly," Crixus groaned. "This..." He placed his hands upon the carved words. "...this is a beautiful thing. A piece of history from one of Cyrodiil's greatest heroes."

"Who is Anhilde the Knight?" Lethia asked.

"St. Anhild," Crixus returned. "Of the Eight Companions of the Hero. She's been sainted by the Cult of the Dragon. She's the matron of knights, soldiers and those who give their lives for honorable service, whether it be to their lords or their realm."

"What's the Cult of the Dragon?" Petruvius asked.

"Some sub-cult of the Church of Akatosh," Crixus replied. "I met them once when I was on Solstheim last year, must have been...the sixth of Sun's Dusk. They cornered me in the Retching Netch, took me into a lower room they had purchased for themselves, and asked me to lead them."

"Lead them?" both Lethia and Petruvius asked.

"They claimed that the Dragon of the South was mine," Crixus explained, leaving out what else he had learned at Sky Haven Temple. "Called me the Last Scion, or whatever the fuck that means."

"What _does_ it mean?" Petruvius asked.

"That, according to the Cult of the Dragon," Crixus continued. "I had all the aspects of another Tiber Septim: a cunning man with knowledge of warfare. Only I'm not an abusive shite who stabs my lord in the back, forces my lovers to kill their children and betrays my friends." At this, Lethia snickered in mockery. Crixus leaned up to strike her, but Petruvius seized his hand. His leg still agonizing, Crixus relented and continued his explanation.

"They wanted me to become Emperor," Crixus replied.

Petruvius said nothing. He had been there during the Dominion insurrection and knew that Titus Mede II was dead; though, despite Eirik using this to combat Crixus' crass and arrogant statements, Crixus made sure that those who may have heard it were told otherwise. The official story, as Crixus had told Petruvius, was that wild Nords had attacked the _Katariah_ and killed the Emperor. Perhaps this was another way in which the Cult of the Dragon saw in Crixus the essence of Tiber Septim. Or, perhaps, Crixus was becoming in truth the lie that had been told about Tiber Septim and which he also had believed? Killing his master and blaming his enemies on it: but for the lack of a slit throat, there was no difference.

"You would make a horrible Emperor, slave," Lethia murmured. "You would abuse your people and bring them to want and ruin."

"I'm the last person who wants to be Emperor," Crixus groaned. "As far as I've seen, there is nothing wrong with Cyrodiil. Once we've concluded our business here, we'll move east and visit the Capital. Then both of you will see the splendor of the Imperial City; greater than any Nord wood-hut or hovel." He turned to Lethia, his mouth drying. "Now what about that water?"

"Find it yourself, 'your Highness,'" she chided. Then, before Crixus could retort, she rose up and walked to the other side of the room. Crixus, meanwhile, leaned back against the stone wall of the cellar.

"Well what _do_ you plan to do, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Fall asleep and dream of women?" Crixus chuckled. "It's too early for this shite."

* * *

The next day was rather eventful, especially when Flavia came running to the cellar when one of her maids cried out that they had been robbed. Much to her surprise, they had not been robbed: only the cellar had been opened by Crixus and his companions. She scolded them for causing a ruckus, but was otherwise forgiving and let them stay on, as long as they continued paying for their room and board. Before leaving, Crixus recovered the book he had found lying on his chest that morning.

According to their plan, Petruvius and Lethia would remain at the Hero's Welcome while Crixus continued his duties for Platorius and the Merchants Guild with betting in the Arena. Thanks to the large stipend he received from Lord Mayor Thwyndilion, he would be able to make even bigger bets and reap in more rewards. Unfortunately for Crixus, this meant being exposed to the people of Kvatch. While on his way to the Arena, a wad of horse shit struck him in the face.

"Cock-licker!" a young Colovian man shouted from the side of the street, laughing at his humorous insult.

"You insolent little shite!" Crixus roared, turning to the man. "How dare you attack a soldier of the Legion! Have you no shame?"

"What are you gonna do about it, huh?" the young man taunted, holding his arms out in an aggressive gesture. "Hit me? Go ahead, shite-face! Take your best shot!"

"Was your mother a Nord whore?" Crixus asked. "Is that why you act like such a brazen little shite?"

"What the fuck did you say to me?" the youth shouted, coming within inches of Crixus' nose.

"You heard me," Crixus returned, glowering down at the young man with anger in his eyes. "What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"

"Alright, that's enough!" a voice shouted from across the street. A city guard in steel lamellar armor approached the two of them. "Break it up, you two. Brawling is illegal in the city streets."

"Oh, soldier!" the young man exploded. "I'm glad you're here!" He turned to Crixus, a finger of accusation pointed at him. "This man threatened to rape me! He threatened to take me back into his house and fuck my arse with his cock!"

"Liar!" Crixus shouted.

"Settle down!" the guard said, speaking only to Crixus. "Now, then, you get on about your business and leave this boy alone. If I see you take one step towards him, I'll haul you off to the castle dungeon myself."

"But he's not a boy!" Crixus retorted. "Look at him, he must be at least twenty..."

"Maybe things are different in Cheydinhal," the guard retorted. "But I don't take kindly to that dark elf boy-love here in Kvatch; gods know we have enough of that as it is. Now on your way, citizen! And don't you even think about slipping up, because I'll be watching you."

Crixus scowled as he went on his way, trying not to look at the grinning, taunting young man who continued throwing mud, shit and insults at Crixus' manhood at him. It angered him that the guard had ruled in the boy's favor and not in his own: did nobody respect the Legion anymore? This was Cyrodiil, not Skyrim. If anything, he should be walking through the streets with applause, parades, fanfare, beautiful women laying garlands and tapestries upon his path and this little shit on his knees, groveling at Crixus' feet.

_No,_ Crixus thought to himself in vain. _I can't think like that, not again. Hammerfell was a bad time but that's over and done with. This isn't a betrayal...it's just...unjust..._

When he finally arrived at the Arena, Crixus found Platorius waiting for him with the guards by the entrance to his box. Surprised, Crixus approached and asked what was the meaning of this arrival.

"Perhaps you could answer that question for me also," Platorius replied, sounding a bit suspicious. "Buto here arrived earlier, claiming that he was a friend of yours and had been invited to watch the games." He gestured to one the guards had in their custody: a wisp of a man with receding dark hair and a thin beard and mustache. Lucan.

"Yes, I did invite him," Crixus stated. "He means no harm."

"That remains to be seen," Platorius replied. "I'll be watching him, and if anything happens while he's here, it'll be on your head."

"Why my head?" Crixus asked.

Platorius took a step closer to Crixus and whispered in his ear: "Rumor has it that no one has ever been able to contain Buto the Spy for long in their custody. No one knows where to find him or how to bring him in."

"Is he wanted?" Crixus asked.

"Not here," Platorius said, stepping back. "But he is a man of ill-repute. Be careful if you cast in your lot with him."

Crixus nodded, then followed Platorius as he took his seat in the box. Crixus asked one of the guards to bring a chair for Lucan, who was quiet until both he and Crixus were seated. Below there was a preliminary battle between a Dunmer and a Khajiit, which set the crowds roaring.

"Come to watch the games?" Crixus asked.

"I promised I would," Lucan replied. "I trust Lord Platorius' comments have not put you off to our...partnership?"

"He said you were a man of ill-repute," Crixus stated. "He told me to be careful."

"Publius Varro is also a man of ill-repute," Lucan added. "But Lord Platorius is friends with him nonetheless."

"Then why did he warn me about trusting you?" Crixus asked.

"It is not a wise thing," Lucan replied. "To trust anyone these days. The Placators are fools, the counts capricious, the Merchants devious and the Dunmer are revolting, as usual. We live in dangerous times." He turned to Crixus. "One might warn others about meddling with you."

"Why is that?" Crixus asked.

"Your attempts at reforming the Mages Guild," Lucan stated. "Could bring large amounts of unwanted attention. Then, of course, there are your other activities."

"What other activities?"

"I heard that there was a break-in at the Synod office this morning before dawn," Lucan explained. "My sources tell me that one escaped the office bearing a description similar to your own." He turned to Crixus with a knowing glance in his dark eyes. "What are you doing with the Synod, may I ask?"

Crixus chuckled. "You of all people should know and appreciate the value of a secret, my friend."

"Of course, of course," Lucan grinned. Below the fight ended as the Dunmer stabbed the Khajiit in the back multiple times to the boos of the crowd.

"If I may," Crixus said to Lucan while Zeno Platorius announced the next match. "Let us return to what we were talking about concerning...saving the Empire."

"Ah, yes," Lucan stated. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Never," Crixus shook his head. "The Empire is strong. We must preserve it, not save it or change it."

"Then there is little use for someone like me," Lucan demurred.

"Speaking as a scholar might, in the hypothetical sense," Crixus stated. "I trust that you, being learned, will understand this. But speaking in this way, if the Empire _were_ in danger and needed to be saved..."

"The Counts," Lucan stated.

"I know," Crixus nodded. "But how do you get control of the Counts...the House of Nobles, as you call them?"

"There are many ways," Lucan replied. "I expect we will find them together. But, if all else should fail, a loyal fighting force would be useful in this matter."

"You mean the Fighters Guild?" Crixus asked.

"No," Lucan shook his head. "There are...complications in this matter. The Fighters Guild have no authority to overthrow or threaten with force a nobleman."

"Then we need the Mages Guild," Crixus reasoned.

"Neither of us are anywhere near bringing that dream to fruition," Lucan explained. "There are, however, others who might be helpful."

"Who?" Crixus asked, his annoyance rising.

"In these days of chaos and uncertainty," Lucan continued. "There are always those idealistic rogues who fight their own battles for justice or seek to escape the justice of the counts. Hedge knights, independent of the Fighters Guild, that wear outdated armor, ride horses, tilt with each other, and take on the tasks the Fighters Guild won't."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked, his interest piqued. As one who was as fascinated by stories of the Colovian knights of the late Third Era as he was with the tales of the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, this was exactly what Crixus wanted to hear.

"If one could gain their allegiance," Lucan stated. "Or perhaps, if that is not the case, find other idealistic young men and women who will swear oaths of fealty to you, make new knightly orders that will be loyal to you and only you. Then you will have an elite fighting force, one that may be used to force the counts to submit, should the worst arise."

A cheer rose up from the crowd as Drogon the Pale entered the Arena to slay the backstabbing Dunmer. Under the cheers, Crixus leaned over to Lucan and said to him.

"What you say," he stated. "Could be considered treason if the wrong ears hear it."

"That is very likely," Lucan replied. "However, there is equal danger for you as well in this matter, if we are to discuss treason. Nevertheless, all that we do is talk of hypotheses, unless you are committed to changing the Empire for the better."

"I've already given you my answer," Crixus retorted.

"Then," Lucan said, flashing Crixus a 'trusting' smile. "All our talk is hypotheses only and we have nothing to fear."

"Still, you said you were loyal," Crixus added.

"To the Empire, not its head," Lucan clarified yet again. "And I have a price for this as well..."

"Yeah?" Crixus asked. "And what price are you asking?"

"None yet," Lucan said with suspicious smoothness in his voice. "After all, you are not committed to this change of which I speak. Therefore I cannot trust that you will do everything within your power. For now, however, let us sit back and watch the game."

* * *

**(AN: I think i remembered the other thing i wanted to talk about, oh yes! That the main character [ie. the Dragonborn] has a novice level understanding of magical spells. For Eirik, this went no farther than some minor enchanting skill which he had taken up in Bruma as a hobby but never really developed, finding swords and his own strength more useful and needed. For Crixus, we saw him learn the candlelight spell and a few others for his Nightingale arsenal, one of which i brought to mind here when he was jarred awake [because i'm sure somebody would complain if didn't bring it up] Also, since we're talking more about magic in this chapter, i thought i'd have a few more spells at hand. Of course this will make things difficult since i now have to re-explain what kind of peril we are in now that there is magic [my brother wants Crixus to die at the end of the story, or at least die and come back - this would kill off any kind of peril more than having magic in the story would])**

**(A few more things, mostly about Pelagius being a perceptive fellow who is more aware of what Crixus wants [or may want] to do than Crixus himself, as well as some more about Eirik's ancestry [Anhilde the Knight, as stated before, was canonized as St. Anhild and venerated by the Cult of the Dragon. In life, she was a Nord who chose to become a knight rather than join the Companions and journeyed to Cyrodiil towards the end of the Third Era. She met Valeria Vulcanis, the Hero of Kvatch, there and trained her how to fight and wield a sword. Her brother, Sigurd the Old, was the great-great-great-grandfather of Eirik].)**


	15. Drogon's Secret

**(AN: A lot of you have been asking why Crixus is so blindly devoted to the Empire in spite of the evidence that the Empire is weak and failing. Well, i haven't got a "good enough" answer right now. i've tried to talk to my brother about this, but he can't seem to disconnect from reality when discussing the issue of devotion to the Empire. For him, _all_ rebellions boil down to Che Guevara [i know most of you, being pro-left, would approve of him; i don't and neither does my brother. surprise considering how liberal he is when it comes to Tamriel]; however, in the setting of the _Elder Scrolls_ universe, Crixus would not have that precedence to criticize the Stormcloaks/any rebellion against the Empire on those grounds. As much as i've tried to say that Cyrodiils have a history and spirit of submission, as opposed to the independent spirit and history of Redguards and Nords, their freedom from the Ayleids is marked by rebellion. The best i can come up with right now is a psychological need for a strong moral and authoritative center which Crixus lacked at home as a child.)**

**(Personally, unless we're talking about Enchanting, Mysticism doesn't really have a place anymore. I mean, the description of it seems almost exactly like the description of Alteration. But Enchanting just sits there, not really belonging to any school of magic, so i feel that it needs a place [though, as i said before, it can always be thrown in with Alteration])**

* * *

**Drogon's Secret  
**

The next five days saw Crixus frequenting the Arena more and more, winning much gold and the favor of Platorius as a suitable companion. On the second day, Lucan the Spy, who had been there on the first day, was gone. The guards gave Crixus a note which Lucan had told them to give to him when he came and asked about concerning him. All the note said was this: _Gone east on business. Will find you._ After the fight, Crixus went to see Lord Mayor Thwyndilion, but she was busy and could not see him.

_What are you up to, Lucan,_ Crixus mused.

During the next several days, there were no attacks made on the Hero's Welcome. Petruvius and Lethia became more anxious to be up and about; not necessarily to leave Kvatch, but to be moving about the city. Staying cooped up inside their room in the inn was reeking havoc on both of them. Petruvius grumbled and sulked and Lethia snapped and shouted more often. Eventually, fed up with this addition to their usual "annoying" behaviors, Crixus permitted them to accompany him to the Arena to witness the fights. Petruvius said nothing, though Lethia was intrigued by Drogon just as he had been. On the fourth day, after the battle, she asked permission to see the gladiator up close. Platorius had a guard lead Crixus and Lethia over to where he had shown them Drogon before. To their surprise, Drogon was curled up in a corner, his wide arms wrapped around his massive body for warmth. To Crixus, there was something sympathetically bestial about this large, bull-headed warrior: he seemed like a child inside a man's body, trapped in a world of bloodshed and death, where his only recourse was to kill or be killed. It reminded Crixus of himself when he was young and inexperienced, during his first days in the Legion.

Lethia, on the other hand, was not moved by any sympathy.

"Pathetic," she sneered. "Such a powerful beast should not cower like a child."

"You should show more pity," Crixus replied, pointing down towards Drogon's cell below the grating. "You forget, that you were once in such a state as he is now."

"And _that_ should move me to pity?" Lethia retorted with a scoff. "I do not pity it. And you are weak for pitying it."

"How can you be so heartless?" Crixus asked, without a hint of irony in his voice. "You were..."

"Don't tell me about how I was!" Lethia hissed. "I know better than any of you how _I_ was: if a tribesman was weak and couldn't hunt for himself, he was left to die or eaten if food was scarce."

"Huh," Crixus scoffed. "So much for your superiority over the barbaric Nords."

"We had no other choice," Lethia sneered. "In the caverns, it was either survive or die. The barbarians kill because they love to."

They left for the Hero's Welcome, but Crixus cast back one last glance at Drogon. How had he come to be in the Arena like this, fighting for his very survival every afternoon to the spectacle of the crowds? He turned to leave when he heard Platorius calling from the other end of the hallway, a giddy expression on his face.

"It's finally happened!" he beamed. "Publius Varro himself will be present at tomorrow's games!" He held out his arm, which Crixus seized as far as the wrist. "I believe thanks are in order, friend. It won't be long before the city is open and the Arena sees more traffic than ever before. Both of us will be richer than kings!"

"Glad to be of service," Crixus replied.

"And I want you there to witness the fight," Platorius continued. "Varro wants to meet you, the one who has brought such wealth to the Arena. And I, most importantly, want you to see the rematch between Drogon and Bram the Mountain. It will truly be unforgettable."

"I'll be there," Crixus assured him.

* * *

In between the Arena, Crixus spent his time with the others in their room, going over the letters they had received. He decided that most of these should be investigated carefully so as to avoid alerting 'T.V.' that they were actively seeking out new mages. At least one other name on the letters came from Chorrol, which made Crixus fear that this might also be another trap.

On the night of the fourth day, the others were seated about in the room, going over the letters for the hundredth time or keeping to themselves, while Crixus was looking over the book that had appeared on his person after the night of the fifteenth. Though not exactly learned in the schools of magicka as Marcurio, Brelyna or Lethia, it was both intriguing and disturbing that, for some reason, he was going into the Synod office and stealing magical tomes. If he could not learn how or why he was doing this in order to put a stop to it, at least he could learn the secrets of this book. Parting the pages, he came to the first one, which bore this introduction: _A Treatise on the Reintroduction of the School of Mysticism._ There was no name listed as the author. Crixus turned the first page and quietly read what was written thereon.

_'What is Mysticisim? That, perhaps, is the one question many who will pick up this book will likely ask themselves in the future. The Third Rumaran Council of 4E 134 ruled that the School of Mysticism no longer existed as a separate school of magical learning apart from the other five. However well-intended or wise the heads of that Council might have been, this exclusion was a grievous oversight, as this treatise will attempt to portray._

_As to the question proposed in the introduction above, the answer of which is difficult for even the wisest of wizards to explain. This ambiguity was likely one of the causes behind the decision of the Third Rumaran Council, short-sighted though it was. It has been made even more difficult to discern due to the animosity that has grown between the mages of House Telvanni in Morrowind and the College of Whispers and the Synod in Cyrodiil in the years since the Oblivion Crisis. Though this author could quite likely make a separate treatise on the benefits of re-opening channels of communication and mutual cooperation with Morrowind, political expedition is not the purpose of this work._

_Based on research gathered over the centuries and well-documented by both of our orders, the School of Mysticism may be plainly defined as the art of change, the means by which mages may achieve the Tower by subtle manipulation of the magical forces and boundaries in order to bypass the limitations of the physical world. Many, including those mages of the Third Rumaran Council, will likely see this definition as being no different to that of the School of Alteration. While, to the simple mind, the difference between the two schools might be immaterial, the subtle differences cannot be discounted for the sake of the ignorant plebeians who still hold to the notion of right, wrong, gods and demons.  
_

_While the School of Alteration's focus is mainly on temporary changes, the true change of the physical world and its laws apply to the School of Mysticism. A sculptor or a blacksmith may take a piece of marble or iron ore and, with his skill, turn that block into a statue or that ingot into a weapon; but the statue is still a block of marble and the sword is still iron. Let us say then that the Alteration mage is like a sculptor or blacksmith of magicka. He can change the burden to make it lighter or heavier, change the water to allow his lungs to breathe, or the surface thereof to allow him to walk upon it. However, the water has only been modified; it is still water. The burden will become heavy or lighter once again. To truly understand and know change, to turn the marble into ebony, the iron ore into gold and to keep the essence of life, the natural spark that flees to Aetherius upon death, and use it to strengthen enchantments, the truly knowledgeable mage must accept that the rules that once bound them to the natural world no longer apply. The weak and undisciplined have fallen by the wayside in pursuit of this, some of them vanishing into thin air upon forgetting to remind themselves of their own existence. Those who are strong of will and have the knowledge and understanding to keep their minds from fracturing under the duress of such metaphysical assault become masters and achieve the Tower, transcending the laws of nature and magicka. That is the nature of Mysticism.'  
_

Crixus paused in his reading of the book, taking a moment to ponder what this could mean. Whereas he found all religious matters to be absolute bogus, even the most complicated and verbose ramblings of a maddened mage would be considered as the keenest and deepest wisdom to him. Magical theory and its applications did not threaten his world view, they did not force him to think about the hate he had fostered all of his youth and adult life. They were harmless and convenient and therefore he respected them. The troubling thing, however, was whatever had caused him to break into, as Lucan had stated, the Synod office and take this book. It certainly seemed that way, based on the dream and the ache in his leg that had only fully gone the day before.

He picked it up to begin reading again when there was a knock at the door. Closing the book and sliding it under the pillow of his bed, Crixus rose as Petruvius opened the door. In it there stood Flavia with a letter in her hands.

"This was delivered just now," she stated. "From the raven-tenders. It's from Solitude in Skyrim."

"Let me see that," Crixus replied, striding across the room to take the letter from Flavia. After thanking her for the letter, she left as he tore it open and, walking over to a candle at the table where Petruvius often sat, Crixus quietly read the contents of the letter.

_Dearest Servius Crixus,_

_Praise the Eight that you are still alive. Every day since your departure has been one of profound sadness. Eagerly I have awaited for a courier or raven-tender to bring a message from you to the Blue Palace. Upon receiving your letter and reading it, I went to the Temple of the Eight in the city and thanked the gods for your correspondence._

_I know that you are a citizen of Cyrodiil and bound by the laws and customs thereof, but, as Jarl of Solitude, future High Queen and one who is dear to you, I would ask that you return to Skyrim as soon as possible. Trouble has once again beset my fair country. In the West, the Reachmen have overthrown Jarl Igmund and taken the Reach as their own kingdom. Refugees by the scores are flooding into Whiterun and Haafingar, sending pleas to the Jarls and myself to save them from the wrath of the Forsworn. Neither is there any peace in the East, once again. The Dark Elves, led by Athal Sarys, have taken the hold of Eastmarch and renamed the City of Ysgramor New Gnisis. The Jarls of Riften, Winterhold, Dawnstar, Morthal and Whiterun also have received refugees from Eastmarch with startling reports of gruesome cruelties inflicted upon the local populace by the rampaging Dark Elves._

_Eirik, the Firstborn of the Sons of Skyrim, has entreated me many times this past weeks to permit him and his warriors to liberate the holds. However, Governor Rikke has requested that I deny him this permission on the grounds that the Dark Elves may be placated if we do not initiate hostilities against them, and that the Empire has legitimized the Kingdom of the Reach and asks for peace with them. I would obey her orders, yet the reports of countless deaths and atrocities grow with each passing day. I ask you, as one who had served the Throne of Solitude as thane, to return to Skyrim and save us from the woes that have beset us. If not, if the_ Evgir Unslaad _is allowed to continue, there will be no peace in Skyrim for many years._

_Please write back with your reply as soon as possible._

_Yours in love,_

_Elisif, Jarl of Solitude_

_P.S. - Sybille Stentor has left an attachment with this letter in answer to your other problem._

Crixus passed the letter to Petruvius, who was curiously looking at it in desire to know what had been written. While Petruvius was reading it, Crixus found the other letter, which was only initialed at the bottom.

_Your request to reform the Mages Guild is a bold one, and not one that many in Skyrim approve thereof. I regret to inform you that a correspondence with Mirabelle Ervine, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, might have been cause for the delayed response of this letter. However, having taken counsel with the Arch-Mage, I have here an answer for you._

_As a rule, Skyrim has always held to the traditions of its own people. While there is sufficient evidence to support the claim that there have been Nord sorcerers in Skyrim as far back as Ysgramor's time, lately the general opinion of mages in Skyrim is similar to that of the general opinion of Nords in Cyrodiil: one of hatred, mistrust, fear and anger. Furthermore, in ancient times when there was a Mages Guild, the induction of the College of Winterhold into it was always firmly resisted by the local Jarls and the Arch-Mage. The Mages Guild represented a purely elven establishment, just as how the Fighters Guild represents an Akaviri establishment. Due to the unfortunate history between these races, those two Guilds have long since been barred from entry into Skyrim._

_I write this to you in regards to the counsel that I and Mirabelle Ervine have to offer. From our own dealings, we have learned that the Synod and the College of Whispers frown upon magical organizations, guilds and services that are outside of their own. If your goal is to reform the Mages Guild and supplant them, you cannot expect to ask help from them in bringing about their own downfall. Seek out those independent of the Synod and the College of Whispers and gain their trust and respect, building to yourself a cadre of sorcerers that will be able to defend your reemerging Mages Guild from all assaults. A charter will be needed to be drawn up to legitimize the organization; as one who has claimed the title Emperor for himself lately, I trust that will not be a difficult task for you. Lastly, there must be a leadership of this new Mages Guild: one man, woman or mer cannot organize and maintain a guild of mages all on their own. In these matters, however, Arch-Mage Ervine and myself can only provide counsel. Our places as court mage and Arch-Mage of Winterhold keep us quite busy and the general distrust of outside traditions make those of the College of Winterhold, such as old Tolfdir, disdain the thought of coming under yet another distant lord._

_S.S._

"Thanks for nothing," Crixus muttered as he crumbled up the letter. Stentor's response had been no greater or less than that of Lucan. Once again he was reminded that he needed magical allies to help him secure a place of power, but to do that, he would have to trust at least one of the names on those letters on the table before him. Yet any one of them could be a trap, especially 'T.V.' He feared himself being forced to do that which he hated and feared the most: he would have to take a chance, trust one of the names and seek them out.

"Wait, you told me, sir," Petruvius spoke up. "That you revealed yourself to the Jarl when Elenwen was sentenced. It seems here like she doesn't know."

"It's best that we keep this a secret," Crixus stated. "An old man told me that it would put me in grave danger if the wrong people found out about...well, you know." He placed the attachment down, then left the room to go pursue Flavia. He had a few questions for her before ordering Petruvius to write him another letter. He found her downstairs in the common room, bustling from table to table, answering questions of the patrons and receiving orders.

"Excuse me for a moment," Crixus spoke up. "I have a question or two to put to you, if you're not busy."

"I _am_ busy," Flavia sighed. "But innkeepers often hear important things, so, for you, I will answer them."

"I may soon have need to leave the city," Crixus stated. "Do you know of any taverns or inns on the Gold Road between here and Skingrad?"

Flavia turned to Crixus, her eyes swelling with concern. "If you're goin' east," she said. "I would recommend avoiding Skingrad altogether. It's not convenient, yes, but it's safer to risk going a week from here to the Capital, if you insist on going east by the Gold Road. Plague has taken Skingrad!"

"I thought that was just fear-mongering from the Count," Crixus replied.

"Closing the city may have been a poor move," Flavia stated. "But there _is_ a plague in Cyrodiil. It's spread as far north as Cheydinhal and as far west as Skingrad, though it seems to have left Bravil and the Capital alone. You will find no safety if you travel east to Skingrad."

"Alright, then," Crixus sighed; his first request came back empty. He then tried his second request. The letter had brought back his conversations with Lucan and what he had suggested as far as solidifying his own personal power and the cooperation of the House of Nobles.

"My other question," he continued. "Is have you heard any rumors of hedge knights around these parts?"

"We don't have customers, in case you forgot," Flavia groaned. "So rumors are few and far between. But from what I've heard, if you go eastward into the Great Forest, you're bound to run into the hedge knights there, tilting against trees or picking fights with each other."

"Thank you," Crixus smiled. "Thank you very much." He went back to his room, with at least a little bit of the information he wanted. Looking down at the silver and ruby ring on his hand, he was reminded of Uncle Surius and what Marcella told him about his youngest children. It made sense, from his mind, that children brought up with the tales of knighthood might pursue such adventures as adults. Therefore he had at last a starting point in seeking the Maro children out: the Great Forest east of Skingrad.

* * *

The sixteenth of Heartfire dawned bright and clear as most days in early autumn. Servius Crixus awoke bright and early and, after waking his companions, went down to the common room of the Hero's Welcome for a bit of breakfast. Once they had eaten and drunk, Crixus told them to remain at the inn until he returned or sent word for them.

"Remember," he added. "We're supposed to be here in secret. If I send for you, come hooded and cloaked. No needless showing of yourselves."

Crixus then returned to his room to wash his face and put on his best clothes: essentially his same clothes only with the boots having been cleaned last night by Petruvius and without all the bandoliers, baldrics and belts common to Crixus' usual accoutrement. He then made haste to the Arena, with the money he had earned from Drogon's many victories hidden in his purse. As he made his way up the Arena stairs to Platorius' box, he saw that there were more city guards along the corridor than usual. When he came up to the top level, he soon saw why. The Arena master's box was occupied by quite a few people, all of them dressed in fine clothes in the Colovian style.

"Crixus, there you are!" Platorius greeted, rising to approach Crixus as he entered the box. "Allow me to introduce the Count's chancellor, His Excellency Publius Varro."

From a seat that had been placed at Platorius' right there arose a large man who was roughly Crixus' own height. Though robed in black with a gold mantle about his shoulders, his broad shoulders made the chancellor's robes appear awkward. His head had lost most of the hair thereon and his gut had gone to seed, but he still held the semblance of one who had fought most of his life, down to the scar on his left eye.

"So, this is the man who my friend won't stop talking about, hmm?" Varro scrutinized aloud. His voice was baritone but lacked any meaningful gusto: neither deep like Lucan's, sneering like Crixus' or booming like Ulfric's. "He says you've won much money in the Arena, hmm?"

"Yes, Excellency," Crixus replied.

"Hmm, not exactly the icon of wealth, now," he stated, his eyes still scanning Crixus. "One would assume a man of wealth to be wide-chested and merry-faced, the very likeness of lord Zenithar himself!" He chuckled as he sat down next to Platorius. Crixus took his seat at Platorius' left and took the golden cup one of the servants offered him.

"Nevertheless, my dear old friend," Platorius continued. "He's got the septims, and that's good for me. Now, then, shall we begin the fight?"

"Yes, indeed, go on," Varro said, waving his hand. "I'm a busy man. I'm only here because you pestered me and my secretary to death with entreaties to come back here and witness the fights."

Platorius rose from his seat, hands raised to catch the attention of the crowds.

"Good people of Kvatch," he began. "On this day, we are honored to have with us the esteemed Excellency, Publius Varro, chancellor of our beloved Count Romulus." Platorius waved his arm towards Varro, who rose up and held his hand forth in salutation. Crixus noted there were cheers, and some boos, from the crowd. Once more Platorius held his arms up and continued.

"Today, to honor our esteemed guest," he said. "We bring you all a final match, for honor, glory and fame. Before you we have a towering mountain of barbarism and savagery, torn from the very heart of his fatherland in the North, paving his way to this city on a trail of dark elven bodies, I, Zeno Platorius, Master of the Arena, am pleased to present you...Bram the Mountain!"

A cacophonous sea of boos and cheers came from below as the large Nord stepped out into the Arena, armed with a shield and an ax; the traditional weapons of a Nord. As he came to the center of the Arena, he turned towards Platorius' box and saluted in the Imperial fashion. Platorius returned the salute, then continued addressing the crowds.

"This day, our noble savage seeks to reclaim his honor from the only one who has ever defeated him before. A beast of myth and legend, one who needs no introduction in this sacred arena! Can Bram take back what was stolen from his through blood and strength, or will he fall again to the mighty, the undefeated...Drogon the Pale!"

The crowds went wild as the bull-headed gladiator entered the Arena, arms held up to the crowds. Crixus saw that, unlike before, Drogon had for his weapons an axe and a mace. He also saw that, as soon as the bull's head turned towards Platorius' box, the gladiator seemed to halt and did not move. Crixus noted that the beast-head seemed to be aimed at one person, and it was not the one standing at the edge of the box, arms raised in triumph at the entrance of his cash-cow. His eyes quickly turned to the one under scrutiny: Publius Varro.

Platorius saluted Drogon, who snapped out of his trance and saluted with a raised mace, then turned his bull's head to his opponent.

"The fight will continue," Platorius stated. "Until one of the fighters has bested the other; then shall their fate be decided. The battle begins!" With that he threw up his arms and the whole Arena burst into thunderous, roaring applause. With this done, he walked back to his seat and sat down.

"That was a rousing speech, my friend," Varro congratulated. "Have you ever considered a career in oratory? Perhaps as a member of the Elder Council, or a chantry of the Eight Divines?"

"Zenithar is my god, my good man," Platorius replied. "And my church is the Arena."

"I know," Varro stated. "But for me, the Count is my world and for that, I do for him what he will not or cannot do. Despite our many sanctions against them, the Chapel of Akatosh refuses to permit him to attend Loredas service there. It's not his fault he enjoys the company of children."

"To each their own," Platorius grimaced. "But why bring this up? Behold the fight!" Below, Crixus saw Bram and Drogon exchanging blows, mace and ax to shield, over and over.

"You are an influential citizen of Kvatch, old friend," Varro stated. "Rich, powerful...of somewhat good name. It would bring us into further interaction if you...deigned to grace the Temple with your presence every other Loredas, starting this weekend on the 19th?"

"Oh, please," scoffed Platorius. "I don't even know why you bother with the Church, much less why you'd want me there."

"We must make the people believe," Varro stated. "That the Eight are on the Count's side. For that reason, I must, as the Count's representative, appear at the services in his name." He snorted. "They're boring as hell, of course, which is why I'd want you to come as well. It would make things a bit more interesting, don't you know?"

"I may be a greedy bastard," Platorius added with a grin. "But I'm not blasphemous."

"What about you, young man?" Varro asked, looking across at Crixus. "Care to come to the Chapel of Akatosh this weekend? Give the penitent a well-earned break from the monotony?"

"Not I," Crixus returned. "I haven't the stomach for temples, chapels or gods. I'd much rather watch the games."

The two warriors continued battling it out, neither of them finding an opening in the other's defenses. Drogon's brute strength was outmatched by Bram's lighter weight, though both of them were roughly the same size. With smaller weapons, Bram was able to stay on his toes and evade the monster's attacks. Cries and jeers filled the air around them like the roaring of wild ocean waves upon the rocky shore.

"What do you think of that, my friend?" Platorius chuckled, gesturing to the crowds. "And wait until the money comes in."

"It's out of the question," Varro mused. "Reopening the city. The threat of plague and the Merchants Guild and all. Still, I am more intrigued by this Drogon fellow. He reminds me of a fighter I used to know in my arena days."

"You were in the Arena?" Crixus asked.

"Of course, young man," Varro retorted, sounding a bit taken aback by the statement. "I was a champion of the Arena while you were still nursing from your mother's..."

"Please, please, no quarreling," Platorius stated. "You know how I hate violence among friends."

"Heh," scoffed Varro, turning back to Crixus. "Nevertheless, I was once a champion, fighting for honor, glory and gold down there in the Arena."

"What made you change?" Crixus asked.

"Ambition, my friend," Varro continued. "I got to the top and realized that there was no honor or fame left for me to gain here in the Arena, so I decided to aid the young Count Romulus, who had recently ascended the Throne of Kvatch after that tragic incident during the War."

"Incident?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, with the Matius family," Varro stated. "The last Matian count bravely charged alone against the invading Dominion forces and lost his life. His son was raised as the foster-child of Count Romulus until he ran away six years ago. They're a fool-hardy family, those Matians. But Count Romulus needed a powerful man at his side to insure his rise to power."

"He was part of the new wealth?" Crixus asked.

"Watch your tongue, now," Varro stated, a menacing glance in his eyes. "There is a reason His Highness has so few enemies in this city; they all have the uncanny lot of mysteriously disappearing at inopportune times." To emphasize his point, he held the tips of his fingers together, then spread them apart as if they were bursting open like a flower blossom.

"Is that a threat?" Crixus muttered.

"Yes," Varro retorted.

"What about the Merchants Guild?" Crixus asked. "Why haven't they...disappeared yet?" Crixus mimicked Varro's gesture.

"They're craftier than we have anticipated," Varro replied. "But do not worry. They are outside of these walls, with the animal-worshipers, hedge knights, creatures of the woods, bandits, Dominion and plague. We are safely inside and that is how it shall remain."

"The battle!" Platorius urged both of them. "You're both missing the battle!"

Turning back to the pit below, Crixus watched as Drogon and Bram were continuing their fight. Suddenly Bram knocked Drogon's mace out of his hand and charged at him, axe raised and shield held forward. Drogon ducked under, lifting Bram up with his large head; his other hand reached up and seized Bram by the neck, dragging him over to the edge of the Arena with the many wooden spikes in its walls. With one hand, he pushed Bram up onto the wall, pinning him to the wall with a spike through his left arm. Drogon strode back, arms raised in victory as the crowd roared in jubilation. For ten seconds there was cheering, suddenly split by a blood-curdling roar: Bram was cutting his own left arm off to free himself from the wall-spike. Drogon watched, pacing about his quarry, savoring the kill to come. Crixus, meanwhile, was licking his lips with glee: it felt good to see a Nord in such bone-shattering agony.

After five hacks and five blood-curdling screams, Bram fell to the ground, his left arm bloodied up to the shoulder. With a roar, he charged towards Drogon, axe in hand. But the massive bull-headed gladiator was stronger and not bleeding from his arm and, to Crixus' surprise, seemed to be cleverer than the Nord. Instead of engaging in direct combat, he leaped back as the injured Nord's blow went wild, sapping him of his already weakening strength. Again Bram charged and again Drogon stepped back. How he could keep his concentration on his opponent without seeing him, Crixus had no idea. Bram charged again, but this time Drogon punched him in the chest twice with his left hand, then buried the head of his axe in Bram's naked chest, sending him to his knees and blood dripping from his mouth.

The stands went crazy with cheering voices and cries for Bram's blood. Hands everywhere were gesturing the thumbs down, the sign of giving the gladiator death. Platorius turned now to Varro and Crixus.

"Do you see?" he asked. "An excellent fighter. He'll bring us much gold and glory, will he not?"

"Yes," Varro replied suspiciously. "Perhaps there is some merit in your decision after all."

"The crowd wants a verdict," Crixus said.

Platorius arose from his seat, hands up in the air to the crowds. At last he held out his right hand and, looking towards Drogon, gave him the thumbs down. Drogon roared, ripped the axe out of Bram's chest and brought it down upon his neck, hacking it off in one mighty blow. The head and body fell to the sand in a pool of blood as Drogon held aloft the bloody axe and his empty left hand in triumph, bathing in the adoration of the crowds. All were cheering and applauding: even Crixus could not refuse to clap his hands as well. Seeing a Nord die was good, even if it was not him doing the killing.

What happened next was unexpected by all, even Crixus. Drogon gave out a loud yell and suddenly his axe came flying towards Platorius' box. Crixus threw himself down as the axe clattered on the floor behind him. Within moments he heard Varro shouting orders to the guards.

"Bring that animal down!" Varro shouted. "Kill him, quickly!"

Crixus was now up on his feet, walking up to the edge of the box. Drogon was now rushing towards the iron gate of the Arena, back into his cell. The gates closed and, to Crixus' surprise, he burst through the iron gates as if they were straw. The Arena was now in a frenzy with the revolt as the guards began scrambling to the exits to stop Drogon's escape. Crixus suddenly felt strong hands take hold of him from behind. He turned about to shake them off and reach for his knives, but then suddenly realized that he was unarmed. The Imperial law was now against him.

"Take him," Varro ordered. "He comes with us."

* * *

Before Crixus could ask, a shroud was thrown over his head and he was dragged in the darkness somewhere. In the distance he could hear two voices arguing: the baritone of Publius Varro and the nasally tenor of Zeno Platorius. They were both in great distress over what had happened in the Arena. From what Crixus could muster, Varro was blaming Platorius for what he suspected was a premeditated attempt at assassination. Platorius, on the other hand, was reminding Varro of his friendship, his loyalty to the Count, and his admission that Drogon had never behaved this way to anyone.

After a while, Crixus felt strong hands drag him forward and thrust him knees first onto the floor. The shroud was removed from Crixus' head and he found himself in a large room lit with torches. At Crixus' right and left were several city guards, with many more along the walls around him. Before him he saw Platorius and Varro standing before him, looking very serious and severe. Varro approached him, arms crossed and a discerning glance in his blue eyes.

"Platorius has told me about you, Crixus," Publius Varro replied. "He told me that you were an entrepreneur, one who would make wagers on his games in an attempt to open the city once again. You know what I think?"

"What, that I tried to have you killed?" Crixus asked. "Look, I've never spoken to Drogon before. I don't even know if he _can_ speak. And I've never planned sedition against the Count of Kvatch, nor am I in league with the Dominion."

"The Dominion is of no concern to us," Varro stated. "The White-Gold Concordant maintains that they stay on their side of the Strid River and they will hold to that. However, your presence in Kvatch is a violation of the Count's martial law. For all we know, you might be infected and have brought the plague into our city!"

"I'm from the west," Crixus stated. "There's no plague in Anvil."

"That we know of yet," Varro replied. "But the knowledge of your illegal entry into the city of Kvatch..."

"Illegal?" Crixus asked. "Wha-What about the pass I..."

"Passes can be revoked," Varro stated. "And as such, your presence will become a violation of the law, one that I, as chancellor, am duty-bound to see rectified."

"What do you want from me?" Crixus asked. "I never did anything to you!"

"Your life is in my hands," Varro said, a wolfish grin on his round face. "To do with as I see fit. Since you are, quite literally, at my mercy, I would hear out my proposition before speaking if I were you." He began to pace around Crixus. "I am a very influential man in Kvatch, and, should you survive, you would find me to be a fair but firmly cruel master."

"Master?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," Varro continued. "I would offer you a place in my employ. Of course, that would require a great deed on your part, one that would prove your loyalty to me and rectify this little incident."

"And what would that deed be, sir?" Crixus asked.

"Drogon has escaped the city," Varro continued. "I want you to hunt him down, wherever he chooses to hide. And when you have found him, I want you to kill him like the beast he is."

"Kill him?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," Varro stated. "It would only be fair that the monster that tried to kill me be put down, wouldn't you agree?"

"Shouldn't he be brought back and tried?" Crixus asked. "Even under the law, there's no one who could prove him innocent. You can have him executed publicly, show everyone you are strong and not to be trifled with."

"The privileges of a trial are reserved for humans, mer and sentient beast-folk," Varro stated. "Drogon is none of these things." He noted Crixus' eyes widening in surprise and scoffed. "Or did you really think that bull's head upon his shoulders was fake?" He came to a halt and looked Crixus in the face directly.

"Drogon is a minotaur," he continued. "Well, half of one at least, that is why he is called 'the Pale.' His lower half is almost as that of one of us, but his head is that of a bull. He is a beast, a wild animal, a rogue monster that must be put down. And I want you to put him down."

"Why me?" Crixus asked.

Varro chuckled. "I don't think you appreciate the gravity of this situation, Crixus. You see, you have no choice in this matter. Either you help me or I revoke your writ of passage. It's really quite simple, actually."

"Fine," Crixus returned. "I'll help you, then."

"Good man," Varro grinned. "You're free, now. Well, free in a relative way of speaking. Tomorrow, after you've rested, you will be sent out of the city to begin the hunt for Drogon. I will write you a temporary writ of passage, allowing you and whatever party you might require safe and unhindered passage to and from the city for the purpose of the hunt. Abuse this law..." He turned to Crixus. "...and I will personally make certain you are never welcome in Kvatch for the rest of your natural life. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Crixus replied.

"Oh," Varro stated. "I'm also confiscating your earnings from the Arena battles." Crixus saw one of the soldiers hand Varro the purse that had hung from his own belt. "Think of this as a bonus of sorts: they will be returned to you upon completion of your mission. Now, then, be on your way. I'm a busy man, you know."

* * *

**(AN: Oh noes! The gladiator has escaped and now Crixus is forced to work with the dubious Publius Varro. What will happen next and what evils will he and the others encounter once they leave Kvatch to search for Drogon?)**

**(Just a thought here, but i was doing some thinking and it dawned on me that while we have many kindly, helpful wizards, we have scarce few witches who do the same. The archetype of witch [one that feminists have embraced, espoused and even encouraged] is of a powerful woman of middle to old age who has detached herself from the world, lives in seclusion and uses her powers for personal gain, sometimes leading to nefarious and malignant ends. The issue is that women are actually OKAY with this image and ENCOURAGE it [you know, like that line "no right no wrong, no rules for me" that Elsa sang in "Let it Go" from Disney's _Frozen_], which creates a self-perpetuating archetype of evil, unhelpful witch. I mean, i can only think of two aged sorceresses in modern literature [of the past 100 years] who were not malignant: Galadriel and Minerva McGonnagall. Most of the others are bad ones: i think it's time for Lethia to have a change, if you know what i mean.)**


	16. The Hunt for Drogon

**(AN: I hope that, in my attempt to recreate all the cities of _Oblivion_, the land of Cyrodiil and new characters and situations, i don't forget all the other things i've already created for this story that need to be resolved. But then again, this story might just surpass _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ for length, so you never really know.)**

**(Also i was thinking back on my works so far with a critical eye, as well as those i have planned, and Crixus is the stereotypical fan-fic character who is the improbable descendant of a canon character being paired with someone they weren't supposed to be paired with, Sigrun will be the stereotypical fan-fic "daughter of the hero" character and there were too many smutty moments in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ [that's why i'm not going into great depth with Crixus' frequent sex scenes. i'm not intentionally "blue-balling" him - or what would you call that if it's a female character who keeps missing out on getting some? - it's just that the sex scenes from _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ were painfully embarrassing in retrospect and i would rather not write anything like that again].)**

* * *

**The Hunt for Drogon**

Crixus' return to the Hero's Welcome felt as though he was being returned to his cell after a futile hearing before his judge. Short of an army, which he did not have - and had even less of an idea how to make, due to having not found any hedge knights yet and having gotten nowhere with his new Mages Guild - he lacked a good contingency plan for Kvatch. With Publius Varro as chancellor, and with his current disposition towards him, Servius Crixus, the winds were not blowing in his favor. Nor would they as long as Varro remained chancellor. But, without the Dark Brotherhood, Crixus could not oust Varro without an army. He was, therefore, forced to cooperate.

But this reality alone did not impress upon Crixus the feeling of imprisonment. Though he was not escorted back, he often saw a hooded figure following him a bow-shot away. Every turn he made, the figure turned with him. He did not enter the Hero's Welcome, but Crixus had a feeling deep inside that he didn't have to follow him inside.

Once he entered the inn, Crixus went straight to his room and told Petruvius and Lethia about what had happened. Lethia said nothing, but Petruvius responded at last.

"It's amazing," he said. "How this beast could have gotten out of the city so easily."

"Were we not stripped of our weapons?" Lethia finally stated. "Perhaps if there were those with weapons..."

"That's unfair," Crixus stated. "You saw the size of Drogon, and you should have also seen how easily he took down Bram the Mountain! Not even a Nord could stand against him and with a weapon! Gods, I don't even think a wamma-su could last long against Drogon. He'd even make a dragon his b*tch."

"Maybe you should marry him," Lethia grinned.

Crixus growled and went off to bed. Petruvius, as usual, remained at the table with his eyes turned towards the door, while Lethia crawled like a spider into the nearest corner and curled up alone. A twinge of guilt came into Crixus' mind: she probably could not remember the last time she had a proper bed. Not a horrible straw bed like the ones in Breezehome or a utilitarian Imperial soldier's cot from their camp, but a true and proper bed like those in Cyrodiil. With a sigh, he rose up and walked over to where she lay.

"What do you want, slave?" she asked without turning her head to face him.

"How did you know it was me?" Crixus queried.

"My hearing is keener than yours," she replied. "I can hear your footsteps and know that they belong to you. Now what do you want?"

"Would you like to sleep in the bed tonight?" Crixus asked.

At this, she turned about and looked at him with her glistening blue eyes. "Why?"

"We'll be going tomorrow," he said. "Ill-equipped and hunting, so we may not have a roof over our heads or beds under our backs the next time we sleep. I thought you'd enjoy a softer bed than the one you've made for yourself, at least while you have the chance to enjoy one."

Lethia rose from the floor, took one look at the bed, then slowly rose to her feet and walked towards it. She placed her hand on it, then, to Crixus' amusement, climbed atop the made bed and curled up into a ball on top of it like a cat. Crixus showed her the pillow and how to cover herself with the blanket, then walked over to the table and sat down opposite Petruvius.

"Why do you do this, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"What?" Crixus returned.

"Threaten to beat her one moment," he continued. "Then treat her like this the next?"

"It's complicated," Crixus groaned. "Besides, since when did you start caring for her?"

"When you stopped, sir," Petruvius stated.

"Watch yourself, man," Crixus warned. "I am not like Eirik, who lets his subordinates talk back to him with disrepectful cheek. I am a Legionnaire, I demand...no, I _deserve_ respect from those under my charge! Is that clear?"

"If you say so, sir," Petruvius sighed.

"No, not 'if you say so, sir'," Crixus retorted. "Yes or no. Nothing else will do for me."

"Then yes, sir," Petruvius answered through clenched teeth.

"Good," Crixus smiled. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Now, then, may I ask you something?"

"Whatever you wish, sir."

"What was your family like?" Crixus asked. "We've known each other, what, since the fall of Mournhold? You've served the Haafingar Garrison well, yet I know so little about you."

Petruvius blushed. "There's nothing to tell."

"Go ahead, tell me," Crixus stated. "I'm listening."

"Why do you want to know, sir?"

"I have my own reasons," Crixus evasively stated. "Now, don't be shy. What were they like? Where did they hail from?"

"My father, Sylvanus Petruvius, I never knew," the squire replied. "He died during the War, before I was born. My mother, Sylvia, and my grandfather Reman raised me. For them, however, the prospect of what Mournhold might bring was too great to pass up and they moved us there. I went with them and the rest, as they say, is history."

"But you seemed to have a good education," Crixus returned. "You can read, write, your knowledge of history alone is fascinating for a soldier."

"The same might be said about you, sir," Petruvius stated.

Crixus chuckled. "Yes, the same might be said about me. But where did you get your education?"

"My grandpa hired private tutors," he stated. "Saved up enough money to bring them home and teach me personally. He said he didn't trust me being taught at the Temple of Boethiah in Mournhold, or of being sent to the universities in Bruma or the Capital."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "Was money an object?"

"Not very much so," Petruvius replied. "His belief was that a private education would serve me better than what he called 'the common knowledge.' He seemed to be of the belief that 'the common knowledge' was flawed, that it taught falsehoods as truth, that my father would not have approved of it as he and my mother did not."

"It certainly wouldn't do any harm to see what the common knowledge has to offer," Crixus stated. "After all, it is folly to assume that one with no education is wiser than a scholar." He chuckled. "Or that an ignorant Nord, raised on his own backwards traditions, is somehow wiser than even the worst student of the Bruma university!"

"Were you educated at those institutes, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "No, I have not seen the Capital since the War, and I've never been to Bruma, thank the Divines! I was educated at home by my father, and my further learning came from private tutors once I was prefect in Mournhold."

"Then how can you say that the common knowledge is superior?" Petruvius asked.

"No more, not tonight," Crixus dismissed. "I must take the first watch. You get some sleep: Divines know you need it."

Petruvius got up and walked over to the bed, where he rested against one of the bed-posts, while Crixus remained at the table deep in thought. His current predicament was bringing great stress upon his mind. His secret heart's desire was to make it back to Cheydinhal by the long road and drown his sorrows in as much flin, matze and sujamma as the Newland Hall had to offer and his (and other people's) money could afford. But he had an obligation to see just how bad things had transpired in Cyrodiil, if only to put at rest the nagging feeling in his mind that he was deceiving himself. He never wanted to believe that the Empire could be anything other than always morally right and always mighty: Anvil seemed intact, but Kvatch was teetering on the brink.

But more than his outward problems and responsibilities, Crixus wanted something more. Seeing Lethia on the ground awoke in him the same, long dormant feeling he had when he found Nilsine Shatter-Shield with child, or when he first saw Lethia and Drogon: pity. He had been taught by his father Valerius to have compassion on the weak and feeble, always rendering aid to them. Yet every time these things happened, Crixus found himself taking that choice which offered him the best advantage and never put him out in a position of weakness. He always rationalized that he deserved the advantage; he was, after all, a servant of the Empire: always finding some rationale or reason to bathe his actions in a different light, to hide from his conscience, the Divines and himself, the knowledge that each action he did in this matter was after the spirit of his step-mother.

If any dared to even speak of this to him, he would immediately shout them down and berate them as usual. How dare they liken him to Sedris Ulver! He had no part in her and she no part in him. He hated her more than he hated Nords, and would rather die than do anything that would have been according to her will, her desires, her instruction or her pleasure. Yet the truth was there: Sedris had, by example, taught Crixus and Venerius that pity and mercy were for the weak, and Crixus had taken her lessons to heart. Now the candle of pity was almost extinguished from his soul: it only waited for such moments as Nilsine's revelation or witnessing a wounded and blind troglodyte or a forlorn, imprisoned beast, to be roused within him.

At such times, Crixus thought of Valerius and how he would regard him now. Often his thoughts drifted to his mother and what she would have thought were she still alive. But such thoughts were uncomfortable and inconvenient, so he put them out. But without the encouragement of alcoholic spirits, putting such thoughts out of his head was much more difficult. So he sought out solace in his companions: at the very least, he expected them to keep silent when he wanted them to be silent and speak only when spoken to, unlike Eirik's wife Mjoll who, like him, always seemed to have something to say for any occasion and any situation. Further than that, he wanted to at least speak to them when he wanted and have them answer his questions. Petruvius' past seemed more interesting than Lethia's: he was, after all, an Imperial, a Colovian, a soldier of the Legion. What could be more interesting than that?

* * *

In the morning, they arose and ate a light breakfast, huddled around a lone table in the corner. As Flavia passed on by, Crixus, looking as exhausted and pale as death, called her over and asked her if she did not know of any caves in the surrounding area. She had no answer, much to Crixus' annoyance. His annoyance deepened when, as she left, his eyes followed the hypnotic swaying of her hips and he saw the man in the hood at the back of the inn, staring at their table.

As soon as they had finished eating, Crixus and his companions unhitched their horses from the stables at the Hero's Welcome, then he led them back to the gates of the city. He showed the gate-guard the new writ of passage, signed by Publius Varro, which he had gotten after being released. This gave them permission to leave the city to hunt for Drogon. Once the guard saw the writ, he ordered those outside to line up to keep the people outside from getting in, then he led the three of them into the gate-house to the guard's armory.

"Here is where we keep the confiscated weapons," the guard said. "Since you'll be leaving the city on official business, you may be wanting these back. When you return, I'll have to put them back here again. Regulations, you understand."

"Whatever is done for the good of the Empire," Crixus stated. "Is fine by me."

"Good of the Empire?" the guard scoffed. "It's city regulations, plain and simple. Nothing more and nothing less. We may not like it, but we have no choice but to obey."

"Sir," Petruvius whispered. "Maybe we should ask the guard about what happened yesterday."

"Right," Crixus grinned: in truth, the thought had almost vanished from his mind. "Do you remember what happened yesterday, with the Arena gladiator escaping and all?"

The guard looked visibly annoyed by Crixus' response, but answered nonetheless. "Four of the town guard are dead on account of that monster, and three others were wounded. I never ran so fast in my life!"

"Not something I would be proud of admitting, personally," Petruvius muttered, but Crixus punched him in the shoulder.

"Did you happen to see where he went?" Crixus asked.

"West, I believe?" the guard asked as he opened the door to the armory. "Look, I wasn't watching where that monster was going. My only concern was getting as far away from that beast as fast as I could. Now then, here's the armory. Your weapons are over there against the wall."

Petruvius found his sword and shield lying against the wall next to Crixus' many knives and the black sheath which held the Nightingale Blade. Crixus took the longest of the three of them, putting each knife back into its individual belt as well as making sure all of his arrows were still in the quiver and not broken. Lethia, however, found only her knife lying in the pile. Crixus asked the guard about this.

"It was the night after you arrived here," he said. "Some blokes from the Synod came and asked for the staff. Since they have a place in the city, we had to surrender it."

"But that staff was ours!" Crixus stated. "Given to us by a member of the Synod!"

"Then you should take it up with them, shouldn't you?" the guard asked. "Ain't my problem."

"But you're the city guards!" Crixus retorted. "You're not supposed to let just anyone take anything from your keeping."

"Don't you be tellin' me my job, citizen!" the guard growled. "If the Synod says they want something, they get it; end of story."

With their weapons, Crixus and the others left the city of Kvatch by the main road. Petruvius and Lethia took the lead while Crixus, who was on foot, lingered behind, feeling naked and exposed. He hadn't seen his foot-pad since reaching the city gates, but the Synod seemed to have taken a significant interest in him and what he was doing. His mind went back to he first time he arrived, over a week ago; the captain of the guard and his men looked at the staff suspiciously. The idea that one group was this powerful, able to supersede the authority of the city guards, was something Crixus did not want to believe. The Empire wouldn't allow a private organization to terrorize its citizens: they were, after all, the good guys.

"So where are we going?" Petruvius asked, turning his horse back to Crixus.

"I should be asking _you_ that question," Crixus returned. "I have no idea where to begin."

"You don't, now?" Lethia asked. "No clever thoughts on where this monster went?"

"Look, I wasn't there chasing Drogon when he ran away," Crixus stated, gritting his teeth. "I was taken from the Arena with a shroud over my head, I had no idea where he went. All I know is that he somehow left the city, and one guard said something about going west. Since it's the only hint we have, it's what we're going on for the time being."

"I should say," Petruvius spoke. "That we should ask the garrison at Dasek Moor. They're close to the city, they might have seen something."

"We'll start with the guard's tip," Crixus stated. "Then we'll go to Dasek and ask them if they've seen anything."

"Maybe we should split up?" Lethia asked. "We could cover more ground."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Petruvius replied.

"I do," Crixus replied. "Lethia, you and Petruvius go south and ask the garrison of Dasek Moor. I'm going west, see what I can find. We'll meet at the fort by noon."

"Sir," Petruvius insisted.

Crixus chuckled. "Relax. This isn't some savage, backwards shite-hole like Skyrim, young man. This is Cyrodiil. What's the worst thing that could happen?"

* * *

With that, they split up, with Crixus once again going alone. He summoned Shadowmere and, unencumbered by the speed of his companion's mortal horses, took off like lightning westward, towards the forest around the Gottshaw Inn. At top speed, Shadowmere bore Crixus to the Inn within an hour. Unfortunately, no one there had any report of any animal movement larger than a fox in the immediate area: certainly nothing about a minotaur. The only significant hint they gave him was that, if there was a large beast this far west of the Great Forest, they would likely be found in a cave.

This complicated the search even more, for, as Crixus learned by speaking to those at the Inn, the nearest cave was on the northwestern side of the city of Kvatch, just outside of the Old Shetcome Farm. According to the map, this led Crixus quite out of the way of where Drogon was said to go. But the report that they hadn't seen him or even heard of his passage meant that either everyone at the Gottshaw Inn were blind as Falmer or Drogon never came this way.

But Crixus was not ready to concede defeat just yet. He decided that he would go as far south off the road as the Strid River and search the land thereabouts for caves. However, this proved to be easier said than done, as the land was uneven and rocky and Shadowmere could not run full pace at all times and places. For the moment, there were no bandits to be found anywhere off the roads. This met with his approval, for this was, after all, a civilized province. Bandits had their place in a wild and savage land like Skyrim, but not in Cyrodiil. But this fragile dream was soon to be shattered.

After taking a look at the sky, Crixus deemed that it was getting on towards noon and that he should return to Dasek Moor to meet up with the others. He turned Shadowmere eastward and began riding along the river's edge until he could find the fort. But as he was going there, he came upon a grizzly sight near the edge of the river. Someone or something had caused a mound of bodies to be strewn on the bank of the Strid; all of the bodies, even from a distance, Crixus noticed had their heads missing. As he was thus wondering why there should be a mound of headless bodies, he soon found the answer.

Riding at least a bow-shot onward, he came to a small clearing with small spears set up around the entrance thereof. Each spear had upon it the freshly severed and decaying head of one of those bodies Crixus had seen at the river's edge. He had not long to ponder who put these up, for just up ahead he saw the strangest sight he personally had seen in a long count of months. On the other side of the clearing was a knight in full steel plate armor, seated on a horse fully clad in the same. He had in his right hand a lance and on his left a shield and his helm bore the likeness of a frog's mouth.

"Just where do you think you're going, stranger?" a Colovian man's voice asked from beneath the helmet.

"I go where I will," Crixus replied.

"Not anymore," the knight returned, shaking his head. "This here land belongs to me and you're trespassing."

"And whose authority do you have to deny me passage?" Crixus asked. "Who are you?"

"I am Sir Viator of the Knights of the Lupine," the knight returned. "This land belongs to my order and none may pass here, especially those who are in league with Brachus Romulus the Usurper!"

"I serve myself and only myself," Crixus retorted, wondering inside how this knight suspected that Crixus was working with Romulus. "Now let me pass."

"None shall pass," Sir Viator replied.

"_I_ will pass," Crixus returned.

"You have no authority over me, vagabond, servant of a traitor," Sir Viator sneered. "Now flee if you value your hide."

Crixus drew out his Nightingale Blade. "It would be unwise to challenge me, sir."

"Ha!" laughed the knight. "And who are you to dispute my authority? Defend yourself, scum!"

With that, the knight kicked his heavy charger into a gallop, leveling his lance at Crixus. For a moment Crixus hesitated: the horse was a large one, obviously not a Leyawiin breed. But it also moved slowly and, as he noticed, Sir Viator seemed to be slouching in his saddle. The sun was out and the day clear, so Crixus assumed that, perhaps, this man was unsuited to wearing full plate armor. Instead of kicking Shadowmere into a run or even a trot, Crixus held his ground, waiting for Sir Viator to come within range, eyes on the lance pointed at his heart. Just as Sir Viator came within twenty feet of Shadowmere, where there would be no chance of halting his horse from its mad gallop, Crixus kicked Shadowmere and yanked the reins left, skirting out in front of the charging horse and around to the knight's right side. In that moment, Sir Viator lost sight of him; the helmet he wore gave him sight only as far as the narrow slit directly in front of him unless he turned his horse around.

Having evaded the charging horse, Crixus, now on Sir Viator's right side, struck the knight's breastplate with the Nightingale Blade: certainly not to pierce, only to strike. The blow weakened Sir Viator such that he slouched forward, dropping his lance as he began to fall off the horse. Crixus brought Shadowmere to a walking pace, turning him to follow after the horse which was slowing down as its rider, now held only by the stirrups of his saddle, was being dragged behind him. Finally catching up to the horse, Crixus took the reins with one hand and calmed it down, bringing both horses to a halt as he dismounted and approached Sir Viator.

"Agh, damn! Shite!" Sir Viator groaned. "Arse! Cock! Kill me now, you son of a b*tch!"

"Why would I do that?" Crixus asked.

"I won't live at your mercy, you fuck!" Sir Viator retorted.

"Why didn't you just let me pass?" Crixus asked.

"No one gets past me," Viator groaned.

"Except just now," Crixus returned. Viator, lying on his back, groaned angrily and swatted up at Crixus with his armored hands. These fell shortly after swatting at the air to no avail.

"Kill me, then!" Viator roared. "I am done for."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "I didn't even scratch you. It would be a pity, also, for the Knights of the Lupine to lose so fine a knight."

"There is no Knights of the Lupine!" Viator groaned. "It's just me."

Crixus mused on this for a moment. It appeared that he had found himself a hedge knight, and one almost as defiant as himself. He put the Nightingale Blade back in its sheath upon his back, then extended his hand down for Sir Viator.

"Rise, sir knight," he said. "You will live to fight another day."

"Fuck you!" Sir Viator returned. "I won't be at your mercy, you smug fuck!"

"I don't extend mercy, good sir knight," Crixus replied: though, to be honest, Sir Viator seemed more like a mercenary, a rogue too hard for the Fighters Guild and too dishonorable for the Companions, than one of the honorable plate-wielding noblemen of legend. "I offer you the chance to serve me."

"Serve you?" Sir Viator gasped. "And just who the fuck are you?"

"Only your Emperor," Crixus returned.

The knight reached up to remove his helmet, but, having fallen and being exceptionally heavy, found this feat impossible. After a moment or two of trying, he shouted in anger and fell back onto the ground. Crixus reached down and, despite pleas to the contrary, removed the knight's helmet. Underneath the helm, Crixus saw a man who looked very much like himself: bald and scruffy with dark eyes. The only difference was where Crixus had shaved most of the hair on his head, this man was actually bald.

"You fucking liar," Sir Viator groaned. "You're not the Emperor."

"Have you ever seen the Emperor?" Crixus asked.

"No," Sir Viator returned. "But I know he's an older man. He was old when I was a child, and you can't be more than my own age, you lying little c..."

"You'd be surprised how old I truly am," Crixus grinned. "And as for my claim, while I am not Titus Mede, I _am_ the Emperor."

"Yeah?" sneered Sir Viator. "And why is the Emperor wandering about Kvatch like some kind of outlaw. And why should the Emperor want the service of a beaten and shamed man?"

"To answer both of your questions," Crixus replied. "I am traveling the counties, seeking out brave men who will serve me. The knightly orders have been dead for far too long: it's time they make their long-awaited comeback."

"And what do you have to offer me in return for my service, Your Eminence?" he asked condescendingly, using the honorific reserved for the Emperor's titular role as head of the Church of the Eight.

"Money, food, women, take your pick," Crixus returned.

"There's one thing I want more than those things," Sir Viator stated. "And that's revenge. Can you promise me you'll give me that?"

"Vengeance is yours already," Crixus replied. "The time between now and your final retribution is meaningless."

"Then, if it pleases you, Your Majesty," Sir Viator returned. "Get me up and back on my fucking horse!"

"Such language!" Crixus returned with a cheeky grin.

"Oh fuck you, Your Majesty!" Sir Viator retorted. "I don't see no servants around, do I? So who else is getting me the fuck up?"

"And where is your squire?" Crixus asked. "All good knights have a squire."

"I may not be a child-loving mongrel like Brachus Romulus," Sir Viator stated. "But I am certainly not good."

"Let me be the judge of that," Crixus said as he offered Viator his hand. After a moment of struggle, the clanking knight was back on his feet and Crixus was helping him back onto his horse. It amazed Crixus just how easily Eirik mounted a horse with all that dragon bone armor, considering how Viator was struggling. Once he was back up, Crixus mounted Shadowmere and asked Viator to follow him, which he did albeit reluctantly.

"Are you to thank for all of these heads here?" Crixus asked.

"Mhm," Viator nodded. "Yes, that's right. I killed them all."

"Who were they?" Crixus inquired.

"Who knows and who cares?" Viator scoffed. "I didn't ask them for their names, lines of work or where they came from when I killed them. They crossed me, so they needed to die."

"So who are you taking vengeance upon?" Crixus asked. "You said you wanted vengeance, but is it against one man or everyone?"

"Look, whether you're the Emperor or not doesn't mean shite to me," Viator replied. "What I do and who I do it against are my own matters."

"Considering I could have killed you just now," Crixus replied. "You should show me more respect. Perhaps I should tell Count Romulus about you?"

"Tell him, then," Viator stated. "Let him know that I'm coming for him."

"Ah," Crixus grinned. "So your vengeance is against the Count? You aim high; I respect that."

"Tch," scoffed Viator. "Like I need your approval."

"You have no reason to say this," Crixus stated. "I've shown you mercy..."

"I never asked for your mercy, Your Highness," Viator sneered.

"Alright, you'll need to stop calling me that," Crixus noted.

"Why did you introduce yourself as that, then?" Viator asked.

"Because I have it in mind to bring back the knightly orders of old," Crixus stated. "And I have decided that, as your future liege lord, you should know everything."

"Liege lord, eh?" Viator asked. "You should be careful about who you tell this to. What you're suggesting is treason."

"Treason?" Crixus asked.

"Hedge knights are outlawed," Viator explained. "Unless we swear oaths of allegiance to the Emperor and our local lords. Personally, I'd sooner cut my own cock off than swear allegiance to that boy-fucker Romulus!"

"You certainly have a lot against him, I've noticed," Crixus stated.

"And with good reason," Viator replied. "The bastard killed my father."

"Indeed?" Crixus chuckled. "And who was your father?"

"None other than Varus Matius, the true count of Kvatch," Viator replied.

"Right," Crixus scoffed. "And how did this happen again? I was under the impression that Count Matius died during the Great War against the Dominion."

"Oh, the High Elves may have dealt him the final blows," Viator clarified. "But Romulus as good as killed him. I was there, you know. Saw the whole damn thing with my own fucking eyes."

"Do tell, then," Crixus stated.

"I was a lad of ten, living in Kvatch during the War," Viator began. "Too young to fight. Then the Dominion came and besieged our city. My father personally led the defense of the city, fighting at all points from the very front gate. They pushed him back into the city streets. He sent to the castle for reinforcements, but Romulus sealed off the castle and closed the portcullis, trapping him outside. I watched from the towers as my father was cut down by the Dominion, waiting for reinforcements that would never arrive. When he finally fell and I felt that bastard's hand on my shoulder, I knew that it was part of his plan."

"Are you saying he violated you?" Crixus asked.

"He certainly tried," Viator stated. "But I was spared. Fought him off until I was thirteen, then I became too old for his tastes, but not for his ire. On my eighteenth birthday, I left Kvatch to seek my own way. I had enough money to purchase a horse, a sword, a lance and some good armor: not an easy thing, even for a count's son. As it turned out, both the Fighters Guild and the Companions were too timid for me."

"You even went to Skyrim?" Crixus asked. "Gods, what a dreary place."

"I wanted to fight," Viator replied. "And there was no war for the Legions to fight in, so I tried to become a mercenary, find some way to hone my fighting skill. But they both kicked me out: I broke more than rules and noses, if you're not too fucking dense to know what I mean."

"You mean you killed people?" Crixus asked.

"The bastards threatened me, they deserved it," Viator stated. "But for some reason, that was considered 'dishonorable.' Tch, like mercenaries have any sense of honor. So I decided, with all the knowledge I had learned, to come back to Kvatch and begin my private little war."

"By killing people who came across your path in the woods?" Crixus queried.

"I figured if I killed enough," Viator replied. "Then Romulus might hear about it and know that I'm still here."

"Why not go after him yourself?"

"Don't fucking criticize me!" Viator sneered. "Only cunts are critics. I didn't ride up to Castle Kvatch and demand Romulus' head because of that pig Publius Varro. He has more webs in Kvatch than a spider, and still quite a bit of strength for an older man."

"I see," Crixus stated. "Well, for your information, I have it in me to reform the old knightly orders. And, as your future Emperor, I feel that I owe you honesty in my dealings, especially with my knights."

"You owe nobody nothing," Viator replied.

"Oh, but I do," Crixus returned. "You see, I will need to ask great things of you in the days to come. Great things, terrible things: things one could not possibly ask of anyone else to do freely or without full disclosure."

"It's still a bad idea, sir," Viator stated. "You can't trust that those under your command would remain loyal. These days loyalties can be bought and honor counts for nothing among people in Cyrodiil."

"Oh, I think a different tune would be sung," Crixus returned. "Especially when they learn of what power I command."

"Tch, and what power do you command?" Viator asked.

"Enough to bring a man of your size down at the first blow," Crixus stated confidently. "And, besides, there are other powers."

"What other powers?" Viator asked.

"Aha," Crixus grinned. "That you will learn about in time. For the present, however, if you are to serve me, I would ask that you increase your skill. If I aimed to kill you, you'd be dead by now."

"You should have killed me," Viator groaned. "The weak do not deserve to live."

"Too true, my friend, too true," Crixus agreed. "But I can insure that this never happens again. My squire is more learned in knightly combat than I am and may be able to show you something."

"And what will this cost me?" Viator asked.

"No money," Crixus replied. "I have money enough to spare to be paying you for what I ask."

"And what _do_ you ask, sir?"

"Have you heard the rumors of the monster escaping the city yesterday?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, I have," Viator nodded. "One of my victims claimed to have seen a beast going north and ran south into my woods."

"North? Not west or east?"

"North," Viator repeated.

"Damn," Crixus groaned. "Well, we'll have plenty of time to look north once we meet up with the others. Follow me, Sir Viator."

Going at the pace of Sir Viator's charger meant that Crixus went slower than usual and it was not until fifteen minutes past the hour of noon when the tops of the tower of Dasek Moor appeared above the trees before them. Once they passed through the clearing of trees, they saw two riders at the front of the gates of the fort, looking this way and that. Crixus recognized them and spurred Shadowmere after them, with Viator following on behind as best he could. The two rode up to greet their leader, then noticed the large man riding up behind him. At first they were startled, but Crixus held his hand up. Viator brought his charger to a halt and Crixus introduced them, being careful not to let on exactly what Lethia truly was.

"And this is my squire, Silenius Petruvius," Crixus introduced.

"Tch, _this_ is your squire?" scoffed Viator. "Looks like he's never even known the warmth of a woman's cunt."

"He may be young," Crixus stated. "But he's fought in many battles."

"That's true, sir," Petruvius added, his face set against this large, angry, bald man in armor. "And I have the training of a soldier and a knight."

"Still, you're only a boy," Viator stated, spitting on the ground. "You wouldn't last an hour in a real fight."

"I have been in real fights, for your information," Petruvius retorted. "I've fought in Skyrim against the Stormcloak rebellion and again against the..."

"That's enough for now," Crixus interjected. "Plenty of time to share war stories later." He turned to Petruvius. "Did your search bring anything?"

"Sir," Petruvius replied. "The garrison here is unhelpful. When we came asking for knowledge about this beast, they mocked us like this one..." He nodded at Viator, who grinned mockingly at him. "...and chased us away. They threatened to have their way with us."

"You lie," Crixus shook his head. "They're soldiers of the Legion. They wouldn't do that."

"Are you fucking naive?" Viator asked. "Just because they wear Legion colors doesn't make them saints or something."

"Watch your tongue, sir," Crixus warned.

"Emperor or no," Viator continued. "You can't stop me from speaking the truth. I've been around these forts, you see. The ones around the Strid River. Apart from Mournhold or Skyrim, a post at the border forts is the worst thing that can happen to a man."

"Why?" Petruvius asked.

"Politics, boy," Viator retorted. "I grew up at court in Kvatch, I've heard about what goes on in the West Weald. Placators on the Elder Council are against the forts. They say their presence fosters 'feelings of animosity' against the Dominion or some other bull-shite of the like. This means the legates commanding the forts don't get no supplies or reinforcements; each fort is for themselves. The garrisons are like to take to looting the villages outside of the cities for food and supplies."

"I-I don't believe you," Crixus retorted.

"Well, you can believe whatever you like, sir," Viator continued. "You obviously haven't been living in Cyrodiil for the past twenty years: I have. The truth is that the forts guarding the border with Valenwood and Elsweyr are in a shite state, undermanned, under-supplied and crumbling. Fort Istirus was abandoned about a year before the war broke out in the north. Those who don't leave become tyrants of their own, pillaging, stealing, raping and looting wherever they will to survive."

Crixus was immediately taken aback by this. He remembered, several times, General Tullius commenting on how a larger force could not be sent to quell the rebellion due to their being placed along the southern border to protect against a potential Dominion attack. He had always taken Tullius' words at face value: he was, after all, an Imperial and a general of the Legion; Crixus had no reason to distrust anything he said. Eventually, of course, after the peace treaty was signed, Tullius was able to get his reinforcements and the war ended. But this did not excuse the fact that, for a year, there had been no reinforcements.

But he had no immediate response and the honor of the Legion was being called into question.

"You shut your fucking mouth, you son of a b*tch," Crixus said in a low, threatening voice. "You know nothing, do you hear me?"

"Nothing?" scoffed Viator. "I fucking live here! If anything, I'm the one who should be saying that to you, what with your notions of Imperial glory and honor. Nobody in Cyrodiil gives two shites about honor, especially in the Legion. We do what we must to survive."

"Great, another one," Lethia muttered to Petruvius, rolling her eyes.

"That's enough!" Crixus shouted. "All of you! We have a job to do, and I aim to do it."

"What job is that, sir?" Viator asked. "Storming the Imperial City, overthrowing the Elder Council and proclaiming yourself..."

"I told you no more of that talk!" Crixus snapped. "We'll talk more when there are fewer ears. For the present, we ride north."

* * *

The company went forth in silence, following the edge of the hill upon which Kvatch was built along its western border. Crixus hoped that there would be some kind of sign that they were on the right trail. Finding Drogon, however, would be quite another issue. Without Lethia's magic to aid them, he had serious doubts if they could defeat Drogon when they found him. With Viator, as unfriendly as he was, they stood a fighting chance.

But as they went and the sun began to go down on their left, second thoughts began to creep up into Crixus' mind. He remembered seeing how forlorn the beast looked in his cage in the Arena and how he had felt pity on him. If Publius Varro's story was correct and Drogon was merely a minotaur, a beast, then surely any wild animal deserved to be free. Yet he knew that Varro held his money and, most likely, his hand over a warrant for his arrest.

_Is this what it's like, Eirik,_ Crixus thought, remembering the Nord's frequent moments of indecision. _To be you? To be so wracked with so much knowledge that you don't know what to do?_

As the shadows of evening began to grow longer, the party came to another clearing on the northwestern foot of the hill. Here, in the clearing, there was erected an old standing stone. Since the clearing was more or less empty and night was soon coming, they decided to camp here for the evening and set out at first light. Petruvius went to work building a fire, Lethia gazed upon the stone, running her hands over it and holding up the little black stone Countess Maro had given her, Sir Viator tied the horses to a tree near their camp-site and Crixus examined the little clearing into which they had come. Just beyond the trees and to the north, he could see the golden plains of the Colovian Highlands stretching out before him in rolling hills dotted with trees and large, jagged rocks. Summer was long gone and the green trees were now turning to gold and brown in the autumn. It seemed bleak, even more so than Skyrim, which he had seen in summer twice.

"It will be greener," he said to himself. "The farther east we go."

For a moment he paused here, gazing out at the Highlands wistfully. A strong desire came over him to summon Shadowmere, whom he had dismissed - much to Viator's surprise - once they reached the glade, and take off in a furious sprint over those rolling hills until he saw the white peaks of the Jerall Mountains. He wanted to be free: free of this great responsibility that was crushing down upon him, free of these petulent children, free of the memories that haunted him every night, free of Varro, free of the Empire, the Dominion, everything.

"So," he heard Viator speak up. "Are we alone enough?" Crixus turned around to where the knight had approached. "Well, I assumed you meant that we would be getting away from Dasek Moor before you told me your plan. So what is it we're doing, then?"

"Right now or in the long run?" Crixus asked.

"Well," Viator grinned. "Since you mentioned full disclosure, both."

Crixus sighed. "I see. In the long run, we are doing exactly as I told you: we are reforming the knightly orders. I will see to it that your Knights of the Lupine are legitimized, with you as their Grandmaster and founding member."

"I'm honored," Viator said cheekily.

"For the moment, however," Crixus continued. "We're after that beast I spoke of. Some kind of minotaur, I believe. Lived at the Arena for a while, then broke out yesterday. We have been charged to hunt it and put it down."

"And who sent you on so 'noble' a quest?" Viator chuckled.

"Varro," Crixus stated. "Under pain of branding me an outlaw."

"If it weren't for the power he has," Viator stated. "I'd have put my fist in that fat fuck's face if he had threatened me with banditry. After all," he chuckled. "As a hedge knight, I'm an outlaw already."

Crixus laughed, then the two of them returned to their camp and ate sparingly from what rations they still had with them. Lethia ate little, for she was still very obsessed with the large stone they had found.

"There is some magic in this stone," she said. "I felt it calling to me the moment we entered the glade. I must needs study it."

"Well, then, study in silence tonight," Crixus stated. "We don't want to be alerting everyone to our presence."

"What are you, then, a Synod mage? One of the College of Whispers?" Viator asked.

"I'm not one of them," Lethia replied.

"Then you must be from House Telvanni, I think, or the College of Winterhold in Skyrim," Viator reasoned.

"I am not with them either," she returned.

"Well, then, what _are_ you?"

"I am a prophetess and servant of the Divines," she replied.

"Tch, another religious nut," sneered Viator. "Your kind are a poison to our world, with your lies and your false promises. Always telling us to kiss the arses of invisible, indifferent fucks who don't even lift a finger to help us!"

"You and I," Crixus said with a grin. "Are going to get along just fine."

"Nobody likes an arse-kisser," Viator grumbled.

"Wasn't doing that," Crixus returned. "I respect you too much."

"Then respect me enough to give me some peace and quiet," Viator retorted. "I don't like talking when I eat."

They ate in silence, while Petruvius examined his sword again. He was certain that it had grown dull in the time since he last wielded it. Crixus, on the other hand, stared into their campfire. His thoughts drifted away from freedom to Viator. Though he was not the image of knighthood that Crixus had grown up with, he was intriguing of his own person. He reminded Crixus very much of himself while he was in Skyrim, a stranger in a strange land with his guard up all the time. He longed to be that again; that Crixus wouldn't take shit from anyone, especially not Petruvius and Lethia. Though they had just met, Crixus felt that Viator was someone he should keep around more often. Being commander of the Haafingar garrison and the combined forces that had broken the Dominion's power in Skyrim had changed him, matured him in a way that he didn't much appreciate. Viator was everything that Crixus was and, hopefully, could be still.

* * *

**(AN: Another long chapter [and we successfully hit the 100,000 word mark!], with quite a few interesting things thrown in there [and i don't mean "interesting" as in Imperial character who joins the Legion and is devoted thereto interesting]. Aside from red herrings and dragging out this chase to about two days, I decided to start trying to get the ball rolling on this whole knights thing. As far as armor goes, the style is mostly reminiscent of the steel plate from _Skyrim_ but with a stechhelm instead of the winged steel Anglo-Saxon one [the stechhelm is the frog-mouthed helmet of yore].)**

**(One reason i write overly-long author's notes [which include the arguments my brother and i had] is to engage you, dear readers, in hopefully some interesting dialogue in the reviews about _Elder Scrolls_. I only have him to talk to and he's rarely around anymore, what with work and a girlfriend and all. So here is something else we were discussing that i brought up a bit before. Who runs the Church of the Nine/Eight? We never really got who ran them before [MK was too busy talking about how awesome ALMSIVI were] and nobody since has really expounded upon their role and power. I know we have the Vigil of Stendarr as a "religious order" that hunts daedra, but apart from that, we see state organizations [the Legion and the Thalmor] enforcing the White-Gold Concordant. Also we hear nothing about the Church of the Eight excommunicating or refusing services of the Nord holds in Skyrim that permit Talos worship. So it seems then that, much to your liking, the Church is the puppet of the state in Tamriel. What do you think?)**


	17. Fight and Flight

**(AN: I've been giving Crixus' story a good deal of thought and consideration, as far as what i want to do with it, where i want to go and such. I realized that, as much as i've been trying to maintain Crixus' crass behavior, he's not as "anti-hero" as he used to be when i began. While he will certainly have some moments in the future, i felt that we needed someone who was more like Crixus when he was first introduced in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness._ That's what we have in Viator, the "red herring" that i stated in the last chapter. He's a knight and while it seems that he would be the "good guy" to the corrupt and decadent Count Romulus [who we have yet to meet, i might add], he's actually just as bad.)  
**

**(I don't know, i guess most of you enjoy the dreary, gray, alien world of Morrowind, but for some reason find Skyrim to be too "dreary", "dull" and "gray." Being the kind of viking metal fellow that i am, i prefer the cold and dark tones of evergreen trees, overcast skies and snow-clad mountains over vibrant greens so intense, they make your eyes bleed! _Oblivion_ was just too bright and artificial for my tastes. And, in light of that, we will be seeing a Cyrodiil in the autumn and winter in this story, so don't expect the vivid, fairy tale colors of Colovia to last too long.)**

* * *

**Fight and Flight**

The morning came, dark, dreary and overcast with the threat of rain in the sullen sky. Crixus, who had been up all night, as per his usual routine, roused them one by one. To his amazement, he found that Sir Viator Matius hadn't slept either, leaning as he was when last Crixus saw him that night, against the bole of one of the trees surrounding their glade. They ate a light breakfast, according to their current means; Viator did not refuse any food offered him, though he certainly complained about the quality.

"If only we could stay somewhere decent-like," he muttered. "Where there's good food to be had."

"We can't go back to Kvatch right now," Petruvius stated. "Not unless we want to incur Varro's wrath."

"I know, I know," muttered Viator. "Still, perhaps when this little task is done, I can take you lot to Skingrad, to the West Weald Inn. They've got good mead, good food..." He turned to Crixus and added with a wink and a smirk. "Good women."

"Isn't there something going on there, though?" Petruvius asked.

"You ask a lot of questions, boy," Viator stated, glaring at the young squire. "Ain't smart for someone of your place and position."

"I serve my lord," Petruvius said, gesturing to Crixus. "It's my duty to know everything. Who knows when it might prove useful."

"Tch," Viator rolled his eyes and scoffed. "If you must know, there are rumors that the plague has taken control of Skingrad. For myself, I've never gone that far lately, at least once the plague broke out, but I've been keeping my ears open. They say the northern half of the city is more or less safe: it's the southern half that's in danger, and the lands around it."

"Let me guess," Crixus, who had been examining the ground of their glade in the dim light of morning, spoke up. "The West Weald Inn is located in the southern half of the city?"

"Northern," Viator corrected.

"At last some good news," Crixus stated. "And in more ways than one. Come here!" Petruvius and Viator walked over to where Crixus was kneeling: Lethia ate in silence, her blue eyes frequently looking at the tall stone in the center of the glade.

"What is it, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Footprint," Crixus stated. "Large one, too."

"Looks like a bull's hoof, only larger," Viator added.

"That's our quarry, gentlemen," Crixus said, a grin on his face. "I think it's time we paid the Shetcombe Farm a visit. These tracks..." He gestured to a few more hoof-prints leading away from the one he found. "...they go east, towards the farming village. We might find ourselves some good news about Drogon there."

"At last a purpose!" Viator exclaimed. "I hate having nothing to do, no purpose to pursue."

"Well, then, I'll have plenty to put you up to in time, my friend," Crixus grinned. "Now, let's eat."

Crixus joined the others in their meager breakfast, while Viator left the tracks and walked over to the tree where the horses were tied. After a little searching, he chuckled aloud then walked over to where the others were eating.

"The black horse is missing," he stated.

"No, it's not," Crixus replied without looking up from the dried venison jerky he was eating.

"Yes, it fucking is!" Viator retorted. "I just checked the horses. There's only three of them: mine, the boy's and the elf's."

"He must have slipped away last night," Crixus stated with no fear or worry in his voice.

"Well, shouldn't you be a bit more pissed off about this?" Viator asked. "Horses don't come cheap, you know. And I sure as fuck ain't carrying you on the back of my charger."

"There's no need to worry," Crixus shook his head. "None of you will carry me and Shadowmere is perfectly safe."

"Perfectly safe in the hands of a horse thief?" Viator asked.

Crixus groaned, then removed from his bosom the black amulet with the ruby in the center and held it up for Viator to see. Upon the ruby was set the engraving of a horse.

"In _my_ hands, actually," Crixus concluded. "You see, the Emperor must have a special horse, an enchanted horse, a magical horse. At my command, my horse will return to my side and all will be well. And when I have no need of him, I merely send him into the darkness and he will vanish like a mist in the morning."

"Oh, so fucking poetic," Viator commented, rolling his eyes.

"Alright, what exactly is your problem, sir?" Crixus asked. "I've been nothing but gracious to you. I've accepted you into my service, let you eat my food, drink my water, sleep where I sleep..."

"I didn't ask for your charity," Viator stated. "And I'm only here so far as you can get me close enough to kill that sorry sack of shite Brachus Romulus. Once he's dead, I'm gonna leave you and your little patsies behind and find myself a nice tavern to sink myself into for the rest of my miserable days."

"We're not patsies," Petruvius retorted. "In fact, we're the voices of reason in this party."

"Shut up!" Crixus said back to them. "You're as bad as he is, you just...go about it differently." He turned back to Viator. "But what about your county? If what you say is true, then you're the rightful heir of the county of Kvatch."

"Fuck the county," Viator grumbled. "I didn't ask to be count, anymore than I asked for my father to be all noble and shite and get his arse killed, leaving me at the mercy of Romulus."

"Where is your sense of duty, man?" Crixus asked.

"Right here at home," he replied, pointing to his breast-plate. "That's the only duty a man needs."

"Sir!" Petruvius spoke up. "May I have a word with you?"

"No, you may not!" Crixus shouted, turning angrily to Viator. "My will is law, dammit, and I _will_ be obeyed!"

"Oh, really?" Viator asked. "You and what fucking army?"

At this, Crixus finally snapped and drew out the black Nightingale Blade, pointing it into Viator's neck. He was ready to run him through right there on the spot: even more so, his draw was so furious that he cut the skin on Viator's neck, drawing a little blood. To Crixus' delight, he saw the large knight gasping heavily, with beads of sweat dripping down his head.

"You cheap little cunt," Viator sneered. "That sword's enchanted, ain't it? You didn't beat me fair and square, you used magic!"

"Shut up!" Crixus shouted. "Shut up, shut the fuck up! At any moment, I can emasculate you and have you on your knees, begging for mercy."

"Then do it!" Viator retorted. "Don't talk my ears off, you boring little fuck, just kill me if you want to!"

"Sir!" Petruvius stepped up before Crixus. "We need to talk _now!_"

"But..." Crixus began, but Lethia stepped up, drawing one of Crixus' daggers from his belt and placing it at his throat.

"It would be wise to listen to your squire, slave," she added.

Much to Crixus' anger, Viator laughed at this. "All that bravado and you're nothing but a weak little cunt. I'm wasting my fucking time here."

Crixus struck Viator on the back of his head, this time with the pommel of the Nightingale Blade. To his surprise, he found that causing him pain made him feel good; the same sensation of pleasure and satisfaction he normally got when he killed Nords. While Viator was dazed, Petruvius and Lethia seized a rope from the squire's saddle and tied Viator to one of the trees. Once they were sure he was secure, Petruvius turned to his lord and master.

"Sir," he began. "I strongly advise against taking this man along with us."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "Does what he say offend you? Huh? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"He's a threat to himself and everyone else around him," Petruvius stated. "He's unstable."

"_I_ was that way when I came to Skyrim," Crixus stated. "Do you dare call your Emperor an unstable danger to everyone around him? Huh?" Crixus glowered down upon his servant, but inside he felt something else, as if he had once again crossed a line. He was admitting openly that he was the Emperor. There could be no going back after this: continuing to be the Emperor out of convenience would eventually become meaningless if he did not have the power to back it up. And if he had the power to back up being the Emperor out of convenience, then surely he could be the Emperor in truth.

But more than this, he felt a line had been crossed in that he was admitting openly that he had changed. After the Emperor's death, Crixus became less and less of a trial to everyone around him. At times with Eirik, he seemed almost civil. Had he indeed changed from what he had been when he and Baucus first set foot into the North? If Viator Matius was the man he had been, which no one doubted - especially his servants, he noted, from the sideways glances at each other and words muttered underneath their hands when they thought he wasn't looking - what, then, was the man Crixus had now become?

But while Crixus thought, his servant had not been idle.

"Sir," he continued. "It would be wise to keep this Emperor business to yourself until we have a secure position."

"And that we won't have," Crixus retorted, broken from his thought. "Unless we have powerful men at our side."

"But him?" Petruvius asked.

"What about him?" Crixus returned.

"He's a lunatic!" Petruvius stated. "We're liable to be killed before we reach Shetcombe Farm."

"Look," Crixus sighed. "We have no choice. He's the first hedge knight we've seen since arriving here. Once we get more and better ones on our side, we'll tell him to fuck off and that will be the end of the matter. But for the present, we must tolerate him."

Petruvius scowled, lowering his head as he kicked the grass and muttered something about tolerance. Crixus, meanwhile, walked back over to Viator, the Nightingale Blade still in his hands, and knelt down before him.

"Listen to me very carefully," Crixus began. "If you don't understand anything else, understand this." He placed the point of the sword against Viator's cheek. "This blade will be your undoing, and I have two very skilled people at my command. So you're going to help us find Drogon and I will test your strength and might at arms. If you pass the test, you will go with us until such time as I deem it fit to release you from my service. If not, I will drag you back to Kvatch and give you over to the Count's keeping."

"Doesn't give me much incentive to join you, now, does it?" Viator, who was still light-headed from the pommel-blow of the Nightingale Blade, groaned.

"No, it gives you no choice in the matter," Crixus stated. "Join me or die; that's my final offer. So what do you say to that?"

"Since I have no other choice," Viator groaned. "I'll go with you."

"Good," Crixus grinned. "Petruvius, Lethia, release him then put him back on his horse. But keep his hands bound and secured. I don't want him getting any ideas."

Crixus sheathed his sword, then summoned Shadowmere from the amulet. As he mounted the black horse, he glared down at the large Viator, his hands being bound as soon as the ropes were off him. It certainly was not the most chivalrous way to have a hedge knight enter his service, but chivalry be damned: desperate times called for desperate measures. And, in Crixus' mind, he had been humiliated by Viator, who seemed content to mock any moment of weakness. He would not be seen as weak, not by him or by anymore.

Besides, anything was on the table for Crixus, as long as it brought about his desired end and made him look strong in the process.

* * *

Two hours past seven, when dawn came, and the four travelers were finally up and about their way. Crixus took the lead, following the trail of the minotaur, while Petruvius and Lethia hung back in line, leading Viator on a rope which Petruvius held. As far as a trail, they found not only footprints in the dirt and mud, but tree limbs that had been snapped off or bark that had been scratched away from the boles of trees. For anyone else, this trail would be nothing but a mess and they would have been lost long ere this. But, to Crixus' credit, he was a skilled tracker and hunter and his keen eyes spotted things that most others would have ignored even under broad daylight; fallen branches, hoof-prints and scratches in tree bark were as good as a trail of paper leading him to his quarry.

Around ten o'clock, they arrived at the northeastern edge of the hill of Kvatch, which loomed to their right in all of his loftiness. To the north, and their left, the hills continued to roll and swell, dotted with trees and boulders and ruins of all sorts. As they continued their journey, Lethia suddenly called for a halt and turned her horse out of the path and down the swelling foothills of the Kvatch hill.

"Where are you going?" Crixus shouted.

"There is something down there," she stated, gesturing to a pile of rocks in the valley. "Some dark magic. I felt it as soon as we came within sight of the mound."

"It's just a pile of rocks," Viator groaned. "It's not a fucking Ayleid ruin."

"I must investigate," Lethia stated, galloping on down the hill. Rolling his eyes and waving with his left hand, Crixus turned their course down to follow Lethia to the bottom of the hill.

At the bottom, they found a large pile of rocks, very large rocks, heaped up in the little gulley. Lethia dismounted and walked over to the pile. Most of the rocks, Crixus noticed, were green with age-old moss and smooth; there were some other rocks that were very large, whose surfaces were twisted like boiled steel, and upon which no moss grew. Lethia examined the pile of rocks, then knelt down and removed a slender plant from where it was growing around the rocks. It looked like grass, no different to any other around save that the leaves and stem were red.

"This plant," she muttered. "It's not of this world, and neither are these rocks. I sense great magic still lingering here, even after two hundred years." She took the plant in her hands and placed it in a pouch hanging from her shoulder.

"Great magic?" Crixus asked. "What are you saying that this...this was a Daedric shrine?"

"More than a shrine, sir," Petruvius stated. "Do you not remember your history of the late Septim dynasty?"

"All too well," Crixus groaned.

"Well, then, this must be the ruins of an Oblivion gate," Petruvius continued. "The Synod and the College of Whispers spent years tearing down the ones that had appeared across Cyrodiil. We would have done the same to the other provinces, but Black Marsh, Morrowind and the Summerset Isles left the Empire before we could offer them aid. Strangely enough, though, there are no records of Oblivion gates in Skyrim."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "But I've heard rumors about shrines everywhere in that gods-forsaken land. Maybe there were no gates there because the barbarians worshiped the daedra as it was, so there was no order and light to snuff out. That, or that the Altmer that led the Mythic Dawn did not esteem Skyrim to be of any worth." He laughed. "Oh, if only more people were as wise as Mankar Camoran in that respect."

"Did you really just call the crazed Altmer who tried to destroy all of Tamriel 'wise', sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Yes, I did, soldier, do you have a problem with that?" Crixus asked. He then turned his attention back to the main path. Lethia was back on her horse and the four of them were back on the trail. "Skyrim is not as important as everyone claims it is. The fate of the Empire does not rest on a frozen shite-hole of a country filled with wild and ignorant barbarians."

"Finally something out of your end that ain't sycophantic arse-kissing," Viator exclaimed. "It's true, though. Fuck the Nords and fuck Skyrim."

"You too?" Petruvius asked, gritting his teeth.

"Hey, don't fucking look at me like I'm some kind of child-fucking Dunmer," Viator retorted. "Nords are counted as less than dirt in Cyrodiil these days, even by the genteel folk of the House of Nobles. They've been nothing but trouble for twenty years: Markarth, Ulfric, the Sons of Skyrim in Bruma, this civil war, their general brutish behavior. People are fucking fed up with their behavior!"

"Did you say 'the Sons of Skyrim in Bruma?'" Crixus asked.

"I did," Viator returned. "There was a movement in Bruma just before the civil war began, with a couple of barbarians and their ignorant white sheep folk, causing trouble for Count Edvald and his reforms."

"Edvald the Wise," Crixus muttered. He certainly hoped to meet him one day and help him in his endeavor to tame the Nord race, as he had heard about his efforts from Idolaf Battle-Born.

"Most of them left for Skyrim once war broke out," Viator continued. "Now, enough questions out of me. I want to ask _you_ something, Your Majesty." He added the honorific with not-so-subtle disdain.

"What's that?"

"What's your aim?" he asked. "I hate having no aim in my life, no direction. And if I'm to serve you, then you should tell me what your goals are."

"Shouldn't you have asked that question _before_ agreeing to my master's terms?" Petruvius asked, then suddenly shouted as Viator gave a tug on the rope binding his hands.

"Shut your cunt-mouth," he retorted. "Nobody likes a fucking critic." He then addressed Crixus again. "Well...sir?"

"Haven't I told you already?" Crixus asked. "Raise up an army and take the Ruby Throne."

"And what will you do once you have it?" Viator asked.

"Restore the knightly orders," Crixus stated. "Pass an edict recognizing the Kingdom of the Reach as an independent and legitimate kingdom."

"Will that not weaken the Empire, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Far from it," Crixus scoffed. "Madanach will be so grateful for the gesture, he will join the Empire. Then together we can do what should have been done the moment the Markarth Incident took place."

"And what's that?" Viator asked.

"Turn Skyrim into a proper and obedient province," Crixus stated. "I don't tolerate their defiant nature, their independent social and political structure and I hate their barbaric ways. I aim to break Skyrim, gentlemen - and lady: break it until there will be no more thoughts of independence and revolt. They will become dependent on the Empire, just as High Rock is. The Legion's right to quarter troops in every hold will be enforced, the Companions will be disbanded and replaced with a Fighters Guild hall in Solitude, and I will have the Arch-Mage of Winterhold swear fealty to my new Mages Guild."

"Sir," Petruvius spoke up. "What is your quarrel with the Nords? Surely there are some who are supportive of the Empire and loyal enough: Governor Rikke and Torgrim come to mind, as well as the Battle-Born clan."

"Thank you," Crixus grinned back at his squire. "You've just reminded me that I should write to Rikke about things going on in Skyrim. Must keep myself informed of that. But, no, a handful of noble savages do not negate their entire race for the evil deeds that they have done in the past, that they continue to do. And you, Viator, don't be telling anyone about what we're talking about or I will kill you."

"Tch, you'd have to find me first," Viator sneered.

"Which I'm very good at doing, I might add," Crixus stated. "Just a few more hours and we'll be in Shetcombe Farm, where our quarry seems to have gone."

* * *

Less than an hour later, the four of them found themselves on the outskirts of a small farming village on the northeastern corner of the Kvatch hill. It sat in a small valley at the base of the hill, ringed on all sides by large boulders. The town itself consisted of three houses, three fields, a few animal pens and a granary in the center of village. As they came to the place, Crixus heard Petruvius bring his horse to a stop.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I know this place," Petruvius muttered. "We passed through it when we were rescued, Lethia and I."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked, turning his head back around to his squire. "What else do you remember about it?"

"The tunnel that took us into the Temple of Akatosh," Petruvius continued. "It's in the side of a hill just south of here."

"Hmm, interesting," Crixus mused, his mind at work on what they could use this tunnel for in the long-run. He did not want to kill Drogon: the empathy that had awoken in him when he saw the beast in his cage was still strong. Strong enough that it had woken in him the desire to flee the night before. But he had other obligations, ones where a beast of that size and strength might come in handy. Furthermore, he knew where Publius Varro would be within a day or two of the current date, if he was not mistaken in his guess of the date. With such a weak count, he could perhaps get the leverage he needed to become Emperor, or at least to garner Romulus' loyalty, if his adviser was removed.

For the meanwhile, however, Crixus brought his horse towards one of the fields. As it was autumn, the fields were thick and golden and the farmer's scythes were busy hacking down large sheaves for the count's granaries. As he came to them, Crixus called out to them.

"I say, sir," he said to one of the farmers. "Do you happen to know the date?"

"Fredas the 18th, I think," the farmer answered, looking up from the golden sheaves he was binding. "Heartfire, the Fourth Era...uh, 202?"

"Thank you," Crixus nodded. "And now one more question, master farmer: did you happen to see a large beast traveling through this village or near it?"

"I'd say so, sir," the farmer nodded. "A day or so ago, but it didn't go through the village. It went towards Sandstone Cave, that's north an' east of the town. One of the youngsters went there, tryin' to see whatever went there: came back running and screaming like a girl, his trousers soiled on both ends!" He cackled a snaggle-toothed grin, then went back to his work.

Crixus too laughed as he turned back to the others.

"At last, a stroke of luck," Crixus stated.

"Alright, then," Viator returned. "So what's your plan?"

"Get there as quickly as possible, before the creature leaves," Crixus replied. "Now shut your mouth and keep up!"

Without another word, they turned their horses to the north-east. Crixus permitted Shadowmere to run faster than he had before in the company of the other three, for his desire was to find Drogon. It was part of his design, which he now pursued with a vengeance: having been long detached and unfocused, it felt good to have a focus again. In one place yet again he found in himself a portion similar to that of Viator.

And to his surprise, this knowledge and what it meant did not trouble him.

* * *

It took less than an hour to find the cave in question at their present speed, with Crixus outpacing the others. They found a shelf of reddish rock, with the open mouth of a small cave yawning in its side. Here they dismounted and Crixus tied his horse up one of the trees nearby, taking up his sword, bow and arrows with him and turning to the others.

"This is it," he said. "This is where the trail ends; it's got to be."

"So what do we do..." Viator began once again, but Crixus interrupted.

"Since you're the largest of our group," Crixus interjected, his usual sarcastic wit coming up again. "You're going in first. Consider that payment for your lip."

Viator shook his head as he, with hands bound, climbed off the horse. "...but what do we do if this Drogon ain't there?"

"There isn't an ain't," Crixus shook his head. "We find him or we keep looking."

"And what about us?" Petruvius asked, dismounting and keeping his hands on the ropes bound to Viator's hands.

"Free his hands first," Crixus stated. "He's no use to us with hands bound."

"I still think this isn't a good idea," Petruvius said, shaking his head as he began to undo Viator's bounds.

"And I think you're a petulant little shite," Viator sneered, glaring down at Viator.

"And once we're all ready, sir, what then?" Petruvius asked his lord.

"Stay behind this one," Crixus answered, gesturing to Viator. "Don't let him bolt if Drogon charges at us. Keep your sword and shield ready. And you, Lethia, use your magic to help us. We will go forward into this cave as the Warrior, the Mage and the Thief."

"Yeah?" Viator asked. "And who is the Thief here?"

"I am," Crixus grinned.

"And what will 'the Thief' be doing while we're risking our arses?" Viator queried again.

"I'll be behind all of you, bow aimed and eyes trained on our quarry," Crixus stated. "Once we go in there, you three obey every word I say. Every word, I mean, and without question or argument. It could mean your lives, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded.

"As you wish," Lethia added coyly.

"And you?" Crixus asked Viator.

"Tch, whatever," he shook his head.

The four of them walked slowly into the yawning maw of the cave. As soon as it began to grow dark, Crixus summoned a ball of candlelight to light their way. Inside the cave was very sandy, for the walls were of sandstone and, having been open for centuries, if not longer, the floor was covered in reddish sand as well. The large hoof-prints of a minotaur could now easily be seen in the sand before them, going forward into the cave but not coming back.

The path they took went roughly straight, sloping steadily down until, after a while, the door behind them had vanished. About this point, the path turned sharply to the left. Here Crixus hissed for them to halt, for around the corner he heard the heavy breathing of a large beast. With their backs against the wall, Crixus crept over, his left hand feeling the rough, grainy sandstone surface of the wall until it vanished.

"Drogon!" he shouted, his voice reverberating loudly in the long, stone tunnel and echoing farther off into the turn in the tunnel. For one tense moment there was no response. Petruvius, who knew his master's style of combat as only a few others truly could, felt that this announcement was foolish: a man who preferred stealth and misdirection boldly proclaiming his approach, giving away the element of surprise?

"We know you're in there," Crixus continued. "We mean you no harm."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Viator hissed. "I thought we were killing the beast, not talking it to death!"

"Shh!" Crixus retorted, then raised his voice to speak to the minotaur he believed to be waiting beyond the bend. "I-I've seen how you fight in the Arena. You could kill twenty Nord berserkers with your bare hands and take no greater hurt than a few scratches. Anyone would be mad to try to fight you. We're not here to hurt you, do you hear? C-Can you understand us?"

"It's a fucking beast, you stupid cunt!" Viator whispered. "It don't understand a single fucking word you're saying."

But the beast _was_ there in the wider chamber that opened upon the left-hand turn, and he understood everything they said. After a lengthy pause, there was an answer. A deep, rumbling voice spoke in a halting voice, speaking sparse, uncouth words: despite the crudeness of the language, the timbre of the voice made their hearts quiver, though they were not afraid.

"Go, then," the beast grumbled.

"He _can_ speak," Crixus whispered to the others. He then turned his head back to the corner. "We're not with Varro, if that's what you're afraid of."

"You, with Varro," the minotaur replied. "Saw you. In Arena."

"But we're not with him," Crixus retorted. "We're trying to stop him."

"No stop. Kill," quoth the minotaur.

"Fuck this shite," Viator hissed, drawing out his sword and charging around the corner with a challenging roar.

"No, stop!" Petruvius shouted after him.

"That fucking fool might ruin everything," Crixus groaned.

The beast let out a deep, rumbling roar, several heavily percussive footsteps were heard, then, from around the corner, he heard Viator crying out and crashing onto the ground. At this, Crixus drew out his Nightingale Bow, fitting one arrow into the string and another into the left hand with the bow. On his left and right appeared Petruvius and Lethia, sword, shield and conjured ice-spike in hands, ready to defend their lord and leader. The ball of candlelight was still floating in Crixus' left hand, illuminating a little of the ground before them. There stood, glowering above them, the ten-foot-tall image of a minotaur, huge and threatening. At this distance, there was no mistaking it: the bull's head upon the beast's shoulders was not a trophy, but its own head, with large brown eyes that glared down at them and steaming breath billowing out of his nostrils.

"If you can understand us," Crixus spoke to the beast. "You will stand down. We don't mean to hurt you, but if you attack us, we will fight."

The minotaur growled, and Crixus saw that the beast had no weapons in its large hands. He kept his bow aimed, though he had not the heart to fire it. Behind him, however, he could hear Sir Viator grunting and cursing as he rose to his feet.

"Fucking threatened me if I didn't come with him," he added. "Now he doesn't want me to kill? Something fucked with his head, I'd say."

"That's enough!" Crixus shouted. He then turned back to Drogon and lowered his bow. "Tell me, great Drogon, why are you here?"

"Hiding," the minotaur grumbled angrily.

"Whoever from?" Crixus asked. "As I said before, you're strong enough to take on anyone who comes before you."

"Not Varro," said the minotaur haltingly, fear still in his voice. "Very rich. Pays fighting men. Bad men. Men hunt me down. Varro swore."

"And you think we're those mercenaries?" Crixus asked. "Those...fighting men? No, you've got it all wrong. We're not on Varro's side."

"Varro swore," Drogon repeated. "Send fighting men. Hunt me down if ever leave. Now you here."

"Uh, I know it looks bad," Crixus stated. "But if you will hear me out, I will tell you the whole story."

The minotaur grumbled. "No one speak to me like this before. They always fight. They always die. You different? Speak to me without fight? Maybe I speak to you in return? Let you live."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Viator asked as he hobbled over to Petruvius and Lethia. "All we had to do was speak to this giant fucking cunt and he wouldn't fight us?"

"Lower weapons," Drogon said. "Speak without fight. Watch him." One of his large fingers pointed towards Viator. Crixus told Petruvius and Lethia to stand down, which they reluctantly did. The four of them remained standing while Crixus told, in as simple terms as he could, his situation.

"I am a servant of the Emperor," Crixus said. "The...the ruler who has power over everyone, including Publius Varro. He has sent me to the counties to see how they fare. I have his permission to remove bad rulers and bad advisers from their office, but I have not the strength. You saw me in the stands, Drogon, because I wanted to see just how bad Varro was; and the rumors were true. I needed the strength to remove them, and so I have sought you out."

"Hmm," grumbled Drogon, who finally sat down before them. "I know nothing outside Kvatch. Never been that far. Hear many things. Wars, counts, others like me. Long I wanted to see them. Varro never let me leave."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "I mean, slavery is illegal in the Empire."

"Because of my mother and father," Drogon stated.

"Who were they?" Crixus asked.

"Father minotaur. Strong, mighty, dead." Drogon began, his large bull's head hanging as if in saddened memory. "Mother human. Fight in Arena. Strong, champion, dead. Sword-master told me of mother. She why I called 'the Pale.'"

"I was wondering about that," Petruvius spoke up. "I've heard that minotaurs are covered in hair from hoof to snout." Drogon grumbled, but made no move to attack them.

"Is that even possible?" Crixus asked. "That a human and a minotaur can have a child?"

"I exist," Drogon stoically replied. "So possible. Not happy story. Sword-master told me on death-bed. Fight last fight in Arena. Gain much glory, honor, praise. Too wounded for women. Came to my cell. Told me story."

"Who was the Sword-master?" Crixus asked.

"The one who trains the fucking gladiators," Viator stated. "Where the fuck have you been living all your life, Morrowind?"

"I not like him," Drogon stated, pointing to the grumpy Sir Viator.

"Well big-fucking-deal," Viator retorted. "I don't like you either."

"Shut up," Crixus snapped to him, then turned to Drogon. "Go on. What story did the Sword-master tell you?"

"Mother champion in Arena." Drogon continued, his head sinking down until his long chin was resting against the hairy mane of his chest. "Long ago. Varro younger. Fight in Arena too. Mother beat Varro in fight. Let him live. Varro angry. Hire fighting men. Bad men. Took Mother into cell with angry, horny minotaur. Father. Father not speak like me. Sword-master teach me to speak. Varro pay him to use cell. Watch as bad men tie Mother down. Make Mother stand before Father. Nine moons later, I born. Mother shamed. No longer fight. Become weak. Die when I born."

A cloud of darkness hung over the heads of all in the cave; even Viator's smug comments were nowhere to be found. Though he had not know his mother, he had known his father, who he had seen slaughtered on Romulus' orders. For no other reason than that, he found himself feeling strange pity for the slow-talking monster.

"I fight in Arena," Drogon continued. "Grow strong. Win many battles. Gain much glory, honor, praise. No women. Always too young for women. Then Sword-master told me story of Mother. Now I grown, but not want women."

"Are you telling us you love men?" Viator spoke with a chuckle, the sullenness of the previous moment elapsed once he found a point worthy, in his mind, of ridicule.

"What love?" Drogon asked. "I know not. Do not want men or women stand before me." His large head lifted up and gazed at Crixus. "Only want one thing: Varro dead. Tried to kill him two days ago. In Arena. Was first time I missed."

"Then how about you come with us?" Crixus asked. "You will have your chance to kill Varro."

At this, Drogon lifted up his head and blinked his huge eyes.

"Sword-master teach me many things," Drogon stated. "Watched as Mother was ridden. Died before I kill him. No one talk since. They all fight. They all die. Only you different." He pointed to Crixus, then saluted with a large fist pounded against his chest. "For chance kill Varro, I join you."

"Wait, we're killing him now?" Viator asked. "Are you mad? Publius Varro is the most powerful man in Kvatch!"

"If we can get rid of Publius Varro," Crixus stated to Petruvius, Lethia and Drogon. "Then Romulus will be much easier to influence..." He turned to Viator. "...or to kill."

"You would threaten the stability of Kvatch, sir?" Petruvius asked. "With the garrisons so undermanned, the Dominion might take advantage of the chaos to strike at our weakest point."

"The removal of Romulus and Varro would not threaten Kvatch," Crixus shook his head. "I have one in mind who might be a worthy candidate for the Count of Kvatch."

"I couldn't give two shites about the throne of Kvatch," Viator muttered.

"I wasn't talking about you," Crixus stated. "There's another one, a politician as good as any. He'll open the city and restore the Merchants Guild, and with a little reminding, he'll be sure not to forget those who put him in office."

"You clever bastard," Viator chuckled.

"Petruvius, Lethia," Crixus said to his servants. "Can you find the passage back into the city?"

"I can," the elf stated.

"Are you all in for this?" Crixus asked. "It will mean a swift flight from here to Skingrad to avoid pursuit."

"Tch," Viator scoffed. "No one would follow us into Skingrad, for fear of the plague and all. Besides, it's close to the Great Forest with all the fucking beast worshipers. Few people go there these days, even on the roads."

"Is that a yes or a no?" Crixus asked.

"If it will bring Romulus into striking range," Viator grinned. "I'm with you."

"And you two?" Crixus turned to his servants.

"I'm with you, sir, as always," Petruvius returned.

"I suppose I don't have a choice," Lethia added.

"And you, Drogon?" Crixus asked.

"I want Varro dead," the minotaur muttered. "You want him gone? Gone good; dead better. I am with you. Kill Varro for you. Help Empire."

"Alright, then," Crixus said, drawing out his Nightingale Blade. "Here's what we'll do." Noticing that his candlelight spell was starting to fade, Crixus summoned it again, which made Drogon groan and cover his face with his arms. Once the light was out, Crixus used his sword to draw a rounded shape with a line running between the bottom of it to the upper right cover, the corner nearest him.

"We'll use the tunnel," Crixus began, pointing to where the line ended outside of the circle. "To sneak into the Chapel of Akatosh tomorrow, where Publius Varro will be holding service. Drogon..." He pointed to the minotaur with his sword. "...you will strike while we cover your escape. Once we're out of sight, we'll use the tunnel again to get out of the city and be far on our way before the city guards catch us."

"You're leaving quite a bit to chance, it seems," Viator stated. "What if Varro doesn't attend chapel that day? Or what if he escapes this beast's attack and comes back?"

"We don't have time for anything greater," Crixus replied. "We'll make due with this plan and improvise should the situation change. Now, then, are there any legitimate objections?" Silence. "Alright, then. Let's do this."

* * *

The party looked rather silly, three men, an elf in white and gray robes, leading a minotaur that was at least four feet taller than the tallest of them, out of the little sandstone cave. Nevertheless, they made their way out of the cave for a few things before making their grand attempt at assaulting Publius Varro. It was broad daylight and smuggling a live minotaur into a town's secret tunnel in such conditions was the height of stupidity; even Crixus admitted that such a thing was not wise. What they decided on was to bring the horses inside, away from the eyes of horse-thieves and others who might steal them, as well as to barricade the entrance with spikes. For this reason they brought Drogon out, for he could uproot trees with his bare hands and wield the smaller ones like spears. Crixus and Petruvius used their swords and knives to sharpen the ends of the trees into great spikes, which Drogon then set up in front of the cave. All this while Lethia examined the red plant she had gathered, while Sir Viator kept watch.

"There wasn't anything in your oaths and threats," Viator stated. "That told me I had to work like a slave."

Lethia chuckled. "How is it _you_ think you're better than the others, slave?" she asked.

"Oh, fuck off," Viator retorted.

"Did Crixus not call himself Emperor?" Lethia asked. "Why should the Emperor work and his subject rest on his watch?"

"Are you deaf?" he asked. "Do your long, elven ears not work? I said fuck off and I mean fuck off! If 'Emperor' Crixus wants to stoop down in the dirt and work like a servant, that's his doing. I don't have to and I don't want to, so I won't do it."

"Leave him be, Lethia," Crixus called out. "I'm not the Emperor yet. Besides, if he is exhausted by the rigors of not fighting, then by all means, let him rest. We wouldn't want him to give out during a real fight, would we?"

"Fuck you," Viator groaned. "I know you tolerate me because you have no choice. I heard you and your servant muttering when you tied me up. You have no choice but to tolerate my lovely presence."

"Perhaps not so much anymore?" Crixus chuckled. He then turned to Drogon. "Tell me, Drogon, what will you do if you kill Varro?"

"All I know is fighting," Drogon muttered. "Where I go where there fighting?"

"There's always the Fighters Guild," Crixus stated. "You would be the first minotaur, or half-minotaur, to join the Fighters Guild. There's also an Arena in the Imperial City, one that would bring you more prestige than the Kvatch Arena could."

"Hmm," Drogon muttered. "Fight in guild, or fight in Great Arena. I must think this."

"Think?" laughed Viator. "Ha! That's fucking rich. I'd sooner believe a Nord could read than a beast that can think!"

"I've noticed, sir," Petruvius stated. "That there's a bit of hostility towards Nords in Cyrodiil. Quite a bit more than in Mournhold."

"Well, can you blame them?" Crixus asked. "They're barbarians, savages, ignorant Talos-thumping apes, rolling around in their own shite, fucking anything with a hole they can find. They're the only reason the Dominion's attention has been turned on the Empire: we've been biding our time the past twenty years, building up our strength against another Dominion assault. Were it not for the rebellion, we'd have even more time and secrecy to continue our muster of strength."

"Biding our time?" Viator scoffed. "Mustering of strength? When are you gonna pull your bald head out of your fucking arse? The Empire isn't biding time, there's no muster of strength. Half of the Elder Councilors and half of the counts of the House of Nobles are Placators, sucking the golden cocks of the Dominion harder than an imga. The borders are unprotected, more than two thirds of the forts across Cyrodiil are undermanned, abandoned or overrun with cutthroats and thieves. The Legion are being used to keep order in Cheydinhal, Leyawiin and Skingrad over this damned plague, but all they do is make matters worse. Skyrim may have always been shite and its people barbarians, but Cyrodiil is fast turning to shite and you're acting like everything's fucking perfect."

"Shut up!" Crixus shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Viator. "Shut your damn mouth, you big, arrogant cunt! You know nothing, Viator Matius, do you hear me? Nothing!"

"I know more," Viator retorted. "Than some Colovian twat who's shut his eyes to the real world."

"You can't fucking talk to me like this anymore!" Crixus growled, the veins of his neck protruding as anger, a red, blinding fury began to burn through him. "I have a fucking minotaur at my command! I can have him break your neck if I want to!"

"No command me," Drogon muttered.

"See that?" Viator retorted, gesturing to the minotaur. "He said you can't command him. So much for your threats, then."

"I don't need him to teach you a lesson, whelp!" Crixus shook his head, one hand coming to rest on the pommel of his Nightingale Blade. "Now you have two choices, you ugly-arse fucker. You can keep talking like some know-it-all Nord and get your tongue ripped out of your mouth and shoved up your arse, or you can shut the fuck up and live to fight another day. So what is it going to be?"

Viator scowled but made no answer. Crixus nodded, then went back to work. While he and Drogon were busy putting a large stake into the ground, Petruvius walked over to the reclining knight.

"Why do you do that?" Petruvius asked. "Start shite with my master?"

"It's fun," Viator replied with a grin.

"A sorry amusement," Petruvius commented. "If you ask me."

"Fuck you too," Viator retorted. "I didn't ask you and Idon't need you judging my choice of amusement. It gets me off, getting under the skin of that smug cunt, and that's it. Now go bother someone else."

They spent the rest of that day, barricading the little cave, before they retreated inside the cave. To their great discomfort, and the great complaint of Sir Viator, their horses had left a few surprises for them inside. Crixus ordered Petruvius to clean up, then summoned his candlelight to explore the cave a little while Drogon huddled against the wall in a corner. There seemed to be another tunnel at the back of the hall where they had first encountered the minotaur, but a cave-in had sealed it off: they were, for the time being, in a sealed room.

Once the horse-shit had been cleaned up, the four humans ate a meal of the rations the three had with them. Drogon was offered food but did not accept it, saying that he would find food later that night once they were all asleep. After they finished up, they began to find comfortable places for themselves to sleep that night. Petruvius and Viator found places for themselves, while Crixus lay against the rock wall of the cavern, awake and eyes open. While he thus reclined, he saw Lethia squirming against the little patch of dry earth she found for herself.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's not the same anymore," she stated. "After sleeping in a bed, the ground just doesn't feel the same."

"Hmm," Crixus nodded. "Well, make sure you don't take too long. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, and we'll need to be ready as well as our horses."

"Indeed," Lethia muttered. "And where will we go next?"

"Haven't your visions shown you yet?" Crixus asked with a sneer.

"The gods have remained silent," Lethia stated. "As they have with you, I notice. Perhaps they are testing us, seeing what we will do if left to our own devices."

"Fuck them," Crixus muttered.

"You sound like Viator," Lethia added.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Crixus grinned. "You know, he might be an abrasive bastard, but he's got spirit. Reminds me of me."

"If you admire him so much," Lethia asked. "Why are you so easily swayed by his taunts? And why do you not see what he says about your world, slave?"

"Because he's wrong," Crixus retorted. "He's just wrong, he's wrong."

"Why is he wrong?" Lethia asked again.

"Because he just is, okay?" Crixus groaned. "Look, the Empire isn't weak or disorganized, right? We're the good guys. We always win, that's just the way things are. If we were weak and disorganized, do you think we could have pulled off that victory over the rebels?" He stammered. "I-I mean, dammit, why does the Empire _have_ to be weak? We gave our lives to defend the Empire during the Great War and again with this civil war in Skyrim: I want to believe that our victory had some kind of meaning. I _refuse_ to believe that the brave sons of Cyrodiil fought and died in two wars for nothing!"

"And for that," Lethia asked. "You would choose to alter the facts to suit your opinion, rather than your opinion to suit the facts? Is that not what you accuse the devout of doing?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Crixus lied.

"I think you do," Lethia wisely divined.

"Oh, if there are any gods," Crixus groaned. "Save me from dumb-fuck imbeciles like Viator Matius, Silenius Petruvius, Eirik the Nord and Lethia the Snow Elf."

"You can mock us all you want," Lethia added as a final word. "But answer me this, slave: why?" The way she asked that one word got Crixus' attention. Turning to Lethia, he saw that her hood had been pulled back, revealing her blue eyes that seemed to be bent in sorrow. Even in the darkness, Crixus could tell that there was some great distress on her face?

"Why would you _choose_ the ignorant darkness over the light of truth?" she pleaded.

"Do you _really_ wanna know?" he groaned: all he wanted was to be left alone. So long had he gone without sleep that the desire to sleep was great upon him, wearying him of all this conversation.

"Yes!" Lethia pleaded. "I want to know!"

"Fine, then I'll tell you!" Crixus hissed. "Because your precious Divines let two boys grow up without their mother, growing up instead with an abusive Dunmer witch who made their lives hell for the fun of it! Because the Divines let thousands of children be slaughtered in the Imperial City during the War: fuck, they practically killed them themselves by letting them die like that! So you tell me, Lethia, why should _I_ accept 'the light of truth', since it leads to bending my knees before baby killers like the Eight-fucking-Divines?"

"I thought we were talking about the stability of your Empire," Lethia stated.

"Don't change the subject!" Crixus retorted.

"Isn't that what _you're_ doing?" Lethia replied.

Crixus raised his hand to strike her, when suddenly he heard a low grumble.

"No hit pale elf," Drogon grumbled.

"Go back to sleep!" Crixus hissed, then turned back to Lethia, his hand flexing as he squeezed her neck in his mind and heart.

"You sound so high and mighty, throwing condemnation upon the gods for the death of children," Lethia stated. "But what are all mer but the children of the gods? Yet you raise your hand against them with this Dominion: are you not killing the children of the gods yourself?"

"No!" Crixus hissed. "Don't you _dare_ compare me to those fucking baby killers! I am _nothing_ like them!" In his rage, he forgot his oath and let slip private matters.

"I..." he breathed as the rage began to simmer down, weariness taking him over once again. "...I was told to kill someone. In Windhelm. A Nord woman. I would have done it any day of the week and never given her or her family a second thought. But when I found her...I found...that she was with child. I couldn't do it. I mean, yes, solely because she was a Nord, she deserved to die. And one dead Nord child is one less white mongrel to stain Tamriel with its savagery and wickedness. But I wouldn't do it; I'm better than the gods."

"Your words are blasphemy," Lethia uttered.

"Then let the Divines strike me down," Crixus retorted. "I'll spit my last breath of defiance at them if they even dare to do it."

"And does your vendetta against the gods," Lethia asked. "Include blinding yourself to all else that goes on in this world?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Crixus repeated, shaking his head and sighing as he reclined against the cave wall.

"Yes, you do," she added. "And one day, you will be overwhelmed by the light and there will not be a single dark hole for your obstinate ignorance to crawl back into and hide."

Crixus groaned as he tried to sleep. All he wanted was to be left alone and have no more of these arguments which only served to weary him. But for this he had no answer. No quick and witty remarks to make. Her words stung true. After the Siege of Volkihar, he remembered coming back to Eirik and having more conversations similar to their first ones. During that time, he wondered if he had changed at all, as he told him in the Forgotten Vale. Now he was wondering again: if he had changed, why had he changed back? Or, if he had the opportunity to change, to exchange the ignorant dark for the light of truth, would he take the change? Would he risk being vulnerable for the chance to leave it all behind?

* * *

Early the next morning, before the break of day, Crixus roused the others from their sleep. After a light breakfast, they girded themselves with their weapons, then made their way back out of their little cave. Lethia would remain behind in the cave, with the horses ready for their immediate departure, while the men went to assault the Chapel of Akatosh.

"I am not a horse-master!" she retorted. "I should be there fighting with you!"

"We'll get your staff, don't worry," Crixus muttered, a thought fluttering through his mind. "Besides, you're the most important part of our group. No matter what happens, we'll be very unwelcome in Kvatch very soon. We'll need a quick escape."

Lethia was not impressed with Crixus' attempts to placate her, but she was left behind without any further ado. Crixus, meanwhile, followed Petruvius, who knew the way to the secret passage, with Viator and Drogon in the rear. It was at the bottom of a valley on the southern side of the farming village, covered by a wooden cart-wheel. Here Petruvius and Crixus went in ahead of the others, for Petruvius knew the way and Crixus would bear aloft the candlelight spell. Behind came Viator and Drogon, walking with backs bent as they were both tall, who said no words to each other. They walked on in silence until, at last, Petruvius spoke to Crixus.

"Sir," he spoke. "May I ask you a question?"

"You seem to have made a habit," Crixus stated. "Of asking questions that devolve into arguments. Not a good habit for a squire, you know."

"I mean nothing by it, sir," Petruvius continued. "It's only, well, you seem different, sir. More focused. I like that in you."

"Me? Focused?" Crixus asked.

"This whole plan of supplanting Publius Varro," Petruvius stated. "You seem to have come up with it rather quickly. If I knew you any less, I would say that you conceived this plan the moment you found Drogon."

Crixus smirked. "I was given certain orders," he replied. "By the members of the Merchants Guild. They wanted the city opened and the Merchants Guild re-instated. Initially, they were going to use the lucrative winnings of the Arena to convince Varro to have the Count open the city. This way, however, we remove Varro permanently and Count Romulus' confidence will be shaken: he will accept whoever the Merchants Guild picks to be his next adviser."

"What about Romulus?" Viator asked. "Wasn't I supposed to get a chance at killing him?"

"Without Publius Varro," Crixus stated. "He will be easier to access, easier to kill. You won't need to fight so hard to have your vengeance."

"When did you come up with this plan, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"After I was forced on this little hunt," Crixus stated. "I never wanted to kill you, Drogon. So obviously I would need another plan, since I would either have to do Varro's bidding or forfeit my life."

"You defy Varro," Drogon muttered. "Have my respect."

"Yes, yes, I know," Crixus chuckled. "I'm an amazing person today, a complete bastard tomorrow. Now, stay focused. I'll go first and speak to Varro. You're not to release Drogon until I say 'Goodbye, Publius Varro.' Are we understood?"

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded.

"Yes," Drogon added.

"Tch, if you say so," Viator sneered.

"Sir?" Petruvius asked. He noticed that his lord did not answer. "What is it?"

Crixus had halted. He was looking at the right side of the tunnel wall, running his hand over the cut stone. The stone was cut rough, with pick-strokes going towards the Shetcombe Farm entrance and away from the city. Crixus' hand, however, came to a halt along a vertical crack, or crevice, going down the side of the wall. It was far too straight for a crack.

"Sir?" Petruvius asked again.

"Nothing," he shook his head, continuing on their way in the tunnel. "What was your question this time?"

"Only that, well, sir," Petruvius began again. "I wonder why this tunnel has not been sealed off before. Doesn't Count Romulus keep the city under lock-down?"

"The brothers at the Chapel of Akatosh," Viator stated. "Use this tunnel to bring food and supplies into the city during sieges. They helped me escape when I was of age. They told me that the tunnel was never closed, that they have had 'many anonymous benefactors' that have done their best to keep this tunnel's existence secret."

"Certainly came in useful for us, now," Petruvius added.

"Yes," was all Crixus said in return.

* * *

The walk would take them at least an hour at their present speed, bringing them to the Chapel three hours ahead of schedule. They had not come prepared for the wait, but Crixus did have an idea for what he would do in that amount of time. During the long hours of silent riding, he had been thinking about his visions. Unlike the ones he had had in Skyrim during his time with the Dark Brotherhood, these ones were not fever dreams or night terrors: he assumed that these were things that were actually happening to a degree. To test his theory, he thought that, based on what he had seen, he would be able to go into the Synod office in Kvatch.

Fifteen minutes after the crack in the wall and the path slowly began to ascend through the rock. It still held roughly even but they could discern that they were going upwards. Another fifteen minutes and the path sloped up again, this time sharper, and came to a wooden door. It was not locked and they passed inside, coming to a cellar with many large barrels heaped against the walls. There were torches inside and enough light that Crixus could extinguish his candlelight spell. Here they paused to rest while Crixus wrapped his cloak around himself and threw his hood down over his head.

"I'm going into the city," he said. "You three stay here until I return."

"What are we going to do?" Viator asked. "I mean, this one's as big as a fucking mountain!" He gestured back to Drogon.

"Keep him hidden?" Crixus asked. "Find someplace he can stay that is out of the way. Move those barrels until you can hide him behind them? I don't fucking know, handle it! I'm not here to hold your hand like a fucking baby: I give you an order, you carry it out any way you can. That's how we did things in the Legion, and what's good enough for the Legion is good enough for you two."

"Sir," Petruvius saluted.

"Oh, fuck you," Viator retorted.

Without another word, Crixus made his way to the central pillar of the room, where a staircase wound upward. At the top, Crixus pushed open a door and entered a side corridor of the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch, one of the oldest buildings in the city. Without a second look into the sanctuary of the chapel, Crixus turned to the doors and left immediately, turning towards the lower city to the south. Blending into the crowds, he followed the people through the lower city and then turned north towards the Arena.

As he passed towards the Arena, he turned into the alley and kept his eyes on the windows of the smaller building south of the Arena. This was the Synod office, he guessed by reason of the eye surrounded by five rays posted on the front of the building. Deftly he leaped onto the wall and pulled himself up onto the ledge of a window on the second story. His hand reached down and pulled a knife from his belt and shoved it between the pane of the window. After a little digging, he found a latch which pushed up, and, leaving the knife in between the window and its frame, he pushed it up with his spare hand, then climbed into the room. Immediately he heard footsteps beyond and slunk towards the door, pressing himself against the wall and keeping his eyes trained at the door. A mage in blue robes appeared from the door, making his way to the window: it was too easy. Crixus crept over, put his hand against the mage's mouth and one knife to his throat.

"Cry out and you're dead," Crixus whispered into his ear. "Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions and I do hope you answer truthfully, or I'll introduce this knife to your neck. A staff was taken from the keeping of the city guards: where is it?" He let his hand move only insomuch that the mage could speak, but kept it close enough in case he tried to cry out.

"If it hasn't been destroyed, it would be kept in the storeroom," the mage replied.

"And where is the storeroom?" Crixus asked.

"The basement," the mage continued. "Down two flights of stairs at the back of the building. But you'll never get there."

"Why not?" Crixus asked.

The mage chuckled "There are mages on all levels of this building. Even if you do manage to get there without being spotted, the door to the storeroom is locked."

"And who has the key?" Crixus queried.

Again the mage chuckled. "Key? Are you that foolish to think that Synod mages would keep keys on their person for any common thief to pick their locks and steal dangerous magical artifacts?"

"I'm no common thief," Crixus replied, then suddenly struck the mage on the back of the head. Quickly he removed his hood and cloak and then assayed to remove the unconscious mage's robes and tie him up with cloth from his own undergarments. After leaving him naked and exposed, Crixus now donned the mage's robes, bundled his own cloak underneath his new found robes and quietly made his way out of the little room and began looking for the stairs. It did not take him long to find them, for he saw a pair of mages discussing something who were going towards the northeastern end of the building. Keeping his head down and his ears open, Crixus followed them at a few paces behind, listening to every word they said. To his surprise, he heard them mention a recent break-in.

"Did the thief get away with anything?" one of the mages, a Breton woman asked.

"Not at all," the other, an Altmer male, replied. "We found the rascal before he managed to take anything of value."

"You captured him, then?" the Breton asked.

"No need to bother yourself with foolish questions like that," the Altmer sneered. "Your tiny human mind can only comprehend so much, after all."

The woman made no response, but the silence told that she was not amused by the preening displeasure of the Altmer. "What was the thief after, though he did not get it?"

"As much as I would enjoy educating the common rabble on the secrets of the arcane," the Altmer replied. "I am not at liberty to discuss what the thief was looking for. You know what happens to those who offend our Thalmor collaborators."

Crixus had heard enough. He shut his mind to all notions of the Thalmor: they were not in Cyrodiil, they just couldn't be. With a huff, he carried on down the stairs to the main floor, then took a moment to look around. At his left there was a door which he hoped would be the one in question. The door opened at a push, which made Crixus chuckle inside: so much for magical locks, he thought. But inside the room it was bare and empty, only a few barrels and boxes here and there. At the far end there was another door, but as he approached it, he saw that it had no handle and did not budge when he pushed it. Frustration began building up inside him as he pushed and jiggled the door again, but to no avail. He reached into his bosom for his lock-picks when he heard a voice call out to him.

"You there!" a Redguard said. "Can I help you with something?"

Crixus turned around to see another Synod mage standing in the door way. He was caught: if the mage told anyone, the jig would be up. Thinking fast, he gestured with his hand for the mage to come closer. When he was within arm's reach, he removed a knife and placed it against the mage's throat.

"You can open the door," he uttered.

"What is this?" the mage asked. "Are you with the College of Whispers?"

"Just open the fucking door, and you won't get hurt," Crixus continued.

Warily, the mage held out his hand to the door and muttered 'Open.' To Crixus' surprise, there was a glimmer of light around the edge of the door, then it swung back of its own accord.

"Go on in," the mage said. "You want what's in there, go get it."

"Yeah right," Crixus replied, then suddenly struck the mage in the face with his hand. But he had underestimated the mage, who had once been in the battle-mage divisions of the Imperial Legion. Just that strike was not enough to knock him out and, to his shock, he went running, crying out "Intruder! Intruder!"

Shite, Crixus thought inside. And there's no way out. Then another thought came to mind of the last time he was trapped with no way out and enemies coming towards him.

"Hide me, Nocturnal," he whispered. "Your Agent of Shadow speaks."

A murder of black crows appeared for a moment, circling around Crixus, then disappeared. Remembering what had happened before, he ran into the dimly-lit storeroom and, after a little searching, found the staff Lethia had been given in Anvil. He placed himself against it, waiting until the mages found him not and left. Within moments, the shadow of several others appeared at the top of the stairs, cutting out the light flooding into the little room.

"Nothing," one stated. "Do you think it's him again?"

"It could be," an Altmer's voice stated. It sounded familiar, but Crixus could not recall where he had heard it before: certainly not in Anvil.

"Should we seal the room, sir?" the Redguard asked. "If he is down there, cloaked and invisible, he won't be able to get out."

"Charming, but no," the Altmer replied. "If he was invisible, he would be making for the exits, not waiting around to be discovered. Go search for him!"

"At once!" the Redguard answered.

The shadows vanished, leaving only one that was slowly making its way down the steps. A tall Altmer in black robes appeared at the landing, his yellow eyes gazing at every corner of the dimly-lit storeroom. Crixus, meanwhile, was already making his way to the door. The thought of being locked in here with a magical lock that he, presumably, could not break open did not seem like something he wanted to do. To that end, he decided to leave the room as soon as possible, with Lethia's staff in his hands.

"Reveal what is hidden," the Altmer murmured, waving his hands about the room as one would to show a painting to their guests. Light blossomed from the golden hands, but Crixus, walking carefully, tried his best to get up the stairs. If Nocturnal's Agency of Shadow would not hide him before magic, it would be wise not to wait around to find out. Doubtless he would have a chance of testing it sooner or later.

Out the window in the anteroom he went, doffing his mage's robes as soon as he felt he was safe, then made his way through the alleyways, wrapping the staff in his own cloak to prevent being noticed. Ten minutes later, he was standing in front of the Chapel of Akatosh as people were milling inside. Here he halted and threw his own hood back over his head, then took the staff and, pretending to be an old man, entered the chapel with the others. As soon as he had passed under the door, he made his way to the corridor, then down the winding stairwell and back into the cellar where his comrades were waiting for him.

"Is it time, sir?" Petruvius asked. "Did you see Varro?"

"I told you," Crixus said. "Not until I give the signal." He then threw the staff to Petruvius, then made his way towards the stairs. Petruvius ran after him, following him back up the stairs and halted at the top.

"Why are you coming with me?" Crixus asked.

"We can't hear anything going on up here," Petruvius replied. "I'll make sure the message gets through, don't worry. You just do what you need to do, sir."

Crixus smiled. "If only you were this cooperative all the time, Petruvius."

Outside there was heard the ringing of bells and the blowing of trumpets. Crixus, who now joined the throng of devotees inside the Chapel of Akatosh, watched as Publius Varro entered the sanctuary. He seemed thoroughly bored and often fingered the golden chain about his neck. He walked up the steps of the altar, where there was a shrine, similar to the ones he had seen in the Temple of the Divines in Solitude, standing before a stained glass image of a robed man holding an hourglass with two faces upon one head: the face of a man looking left and the face of a dragon looking right.

"As steward and chancellor of this fair city," Varro began, addressing those gathered in the Chapel. He spoke as one delivering a long-rehearsed speech, who had no desire to give said speech. "It is my duty to open the Loredas convocation." All heads in the chapel bowed, save for Crixus who made his way through the crowds quietly, trying to get as close as he could to Varro.

"Great Dragon, Lord of Time and the one true god of the Empire," Varro began. "We come before you this day that you might give us your blessing in these dark times. Give us your strength to weather the storms of this time, and in return we ask that you open our hearts to serve our lords, obey our masters and remember our duty to the Empire and the Eight Divines."

"Amen," murmured everyone in the chapel.

At last Crixus had come next to Publius Varro. Now that the convocation was over, the people would go to their seats and the priest would continue the service.

"My lord!" Crixus whispered.

"Ah, Crixus," Varro greeted. "I see that you have returned in one piece. This is good. I trust then that you have good news to give me?"

"Yes, indeed," Crixus nodded. "But first, my lord, I must ask for my winnings to be returned. That was the agreement, was it not?"

"That you kill Drogon and I give you back your money?" Varro asked. "Yes, I remember. You are saying, then, that Drogon is dead?"

"Yes, he is dead," Crixus replied. "I killed him myself."

"Indeed?" Varro asked. "Well, then, I should like to see his head. Surely if he is dead indeed, you brought back his head as proof?"

"There was no time," Crixus replied, grinning. There was something in Varro's blue eyes that made him feel as if this sly, portly fellow knew exactly what had happened. "I had to bring the news back immediately of his death."

"Ah, Crixus, my dear friend," Varro said, placing his hand upon Crixus' shoulder. "You certainly are a wonder."

"I do my best," Crixus replied. "So, about my reward..."

"Oh, let's have no more talk of rewards," Varro stated, swatting his hand. He then leaned in and whispered into Crixus' ear. "We both know you didn't kill Drogon." Crixus saw that Varro's right hand was reaching for something on his belt.

"You're really gonna try and kill me in a church?" Crixus asked.

"It's a building, nothing more," Varro muttered. "No holier than the Arena. No dragon-god is going to save you from me."

Crixus' hand seized the knife even as Varro thrust it into Crixus' chest. Unlike his encounter in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Crixus did not seize the knife with both hands. But even so, he found that Varro's strength, even in his middle age, was almost equal to his own: one hand seized Crixus from behind while the other tried to jab the knife into Crixus as clandestinely as possible. But Crixus, with more than one limb free, was not ready to give up. He stepped on Varro's foot, then pushed his elbow into his face and was able to pull himself away.

"You _dare_ strike the chancellor of Kvatch?" Varro retorted, still brandishing the knife. Those around them were backing away in fear, watching the deadly encounter. "There will be no reward for you, do you hear me? This treachery will not go unpunished!"

"Goodbye, Publius Varro," Crixus said as loudly as possible.

"No, my friend," Varro shook his head. "Goodbye, Crixus. Guards!"

The doors of the Chapel were closed and Crixus heard men in lamellar armor clanking into the sanctuary. To his surprise, he realized all too late that the trap he had attempted to set for Publius Varro had in fact been set for himself. Into his mind once again came the image of the hooded man following him from the Count's castle all the way to the gates of the city. He had taken him for a Synod spy, but what if there was more than simply that? What if he was a spy for both the Synod and for Varro? What if he had reported to the Count all that he had seen and heard, and they had now walked blindly into a trap?

_Lethia_, his first thoughts went to his companion. What if they knew about the escape plan and were already besieging the cave? Now was the time to escape. He had to call off the plan and head back down the tunnel to return to Shetcombe and make their flight.

Suddenly there was a loud roar and, moments later, the huge form of the minotaur erupted into the chapel sanctuary. Cries and panicked screams rose from everyone around them and, to Crixus' slight amusement, he saw Publius Varro go pale as a sheet. His guards, who had now come to arrest and kill Crixus, he now scurried behind, sputtering and gesturing at the giant minotaur stomping towards him.

"D-D-Do something!" he cried. "Don't let it get me!"

Crixus, meanwhile, was stepping back as Drogon charged towards the city guards, throwing them back with his shoulder charge. There were doubtless enough to kill him and the others, but Crixus was already thinking ahead. The chaos caused by Drogon's charge would give him the chance to go back and tell the others to start running. He crept back into the darkened tunnel and ran down the spiraled staircase, Petruvius coming after him. At the bottom of the stairs they found Viator, sword drawn.

"Go!" Crixus shouted. "The jig is up. Varro was waiting for us, he's brought in the city guard!"

"Fuck!" Viator roared. "You promised me the chance to kill Brachus Romulus!"

"And you'll have that chance," Crixus replied. "But right now it's time to fly, not fight." He turned to Petruvius. "Make sure he gets out out of here. Drogon and I will be just behind you."

Without listening to Petruvius' reply, Crixus was back up the stairs and into the sanctuary. The people were cowering on the sides, unarmed and helpless against what was happening before them. Though their screams and cries grated his nerves and filled him with a desire to see them all dead, Crixus was happy that none of them were foolish enough to draw steel and try to attack Drogon. He had seen quite a few attempts by ignorant townsfolk in Skyrim who tried to fight off a bandit-raid or a brawl in the town streets, and he felt that the common people did not deserve to be armed: if they weren't armed, they wouldn't do stupid things like that.

In the center of the sanctuary, pews and city guards went flying as Drogon fought to keep them away, now wielding one of the guard's spears. Varro, Crixus saw, was at the doors he had ordered sealed to keep Crixus in, banging on them with his fists.

"Let me out!" he roared. "Let me out of here at once! Do you hear me? I said open these damn doors at once! I'm not supposed to die like this!"

Crixus saw that, despite his great strength, the guards had penned Drogon in and were jabbing at him periodically with their spears. If they kept this up, the beast would make a mistake and they would be upon him in no time. Drawing his Nightingale Blade, he charged into the lines of the city guards and struck one down, who crumbled under the debilitating weakness the blade's strike gave him. Three guards fell before Crixus was now standing next to Drogon.

"Come with me!" he shouted to the beast. "It's time to go."

"Varro must die!" Drogon roared.

"And he will!" Crixus retorted. "But if you keep fighting, you'll never kill him. You'll just die and he'll stay alive to spite you. Live today, fight again tomorrow. I promise you, Drogon, you will have your vengeance."

"I never..."

"Don't talk, just run!" Crixus shouted.

With that, Drogon broke through the opening Crixus had made and charged back towards the stairs. Crixus followed on as best he could, practically leaping down the spiraled staircase after the large beast. To his relief, Petruvius and Viator were already gone by the time they entered. With a yell, he ran after Drogon into the long tunnel leading under and out of the city. Running and with the tunnel sloping down, it would take them less than an hour to reach the exit. However, as they were approaching the place where Crixus felt the crack in the wall, they heard the sounds of battle. Summoning his candlelight spell, Crixus saw Viator and Petruvius fighting off a contingent of the city guard.

But even more surprising he saw a part of the wall missing and noises coming from it: shouts, as if men rallying for a pursuit.

"Drogon!" Crixus cried behind him. "Make a path!"

"Move!" Petruvius shouted.

At that moment, the massive beast came lumbering through the tunnel, sending the city guards (and, to Crixus' surprise, blue-robed mages who joined the fray just now) flying every which way. Behind him they followed, running as fast as their tired legs could carry them. Another ten minutes they continued going, and now the tunnel saw light up ahead: the echoes of pursuit followed after them but they had outran the city guards. At last they made it outside and hastened to the cave north of the little farming village. Just outside, they found Lethia with the horses ready for them, just as Crixus had planned. Two men and one mer leaped onto their saddles while Crixus summoned Shadowmere: as there was no horse large enough for Drogon, he was forced to run alongside them. Nevertheless, the plan worked and they were galloping east through the rolling hills by the time the guards of Kvatch exited the tunnel.

Though Crixus had made his escape, he was unaware that watchful eyes were now tracking him on his way eastward, towards Skingrad.

* * *

**(AN: This chapter ended up being longer than i thought, but it needed to happen. Stuff has been happening, busy working, being sick, etc. But yes, new chapter. I feel that there needs to be more lighter or even quirky moments in this story. _Skyrim_ had its unique and funny moments, but i need to make those as well, in addition to creating characters you all will like [and we've only just begun]. As far as the one topic i've mentioned, namely the organization of the Church of the Eight/Nine, i did find something from _Beyond Skyrim_ which i liked [i'm not too much of a fan of what they're doing; mostly because it contradicts what this my fanon has and, since i'm independent of that modding community, i'm allowed to defend my own work and not compromise], which will be seen, especially once we get to Chorrol.)**

**(No comments about my brother, because all talk between us about Elder Scrolls turns into arguing and nothing profitable is gained thereby. Drogon was my brother's idea [and apparently the name was not inspired by Dany's dragon from _Game of Thrones_], and the description of his voice, while it might seem a bit like "purple prose" to the lot of you, i tried to describe, in medieval/pre-Industrial terms, a voice that, like bass at a concert, makes your heart rumble with each strike/pluck. As for why i stick to his depiction of Crixus, to a degree, he is, after all, inspired by him and his reaction to things in the Elder Scrolls universe, based on his _Skyrim_ character and all: there is, though, some of my own depiction there as well, as i have said before. Also, no, the Imperial Cult _is_ the Church of the Nine, it's what those daedra/ALMSIVI-worshiping Dunmer call them because, after all, anything human in _Morrowind_ MUST be labeled with the most negative labels [you know, like "n'wah"?].)**


	18. The Great Plague

**(AN: I went back to play _Skyrim_ again on PS3 [to actually play it and not complain about all the bugs, incomplete portions and lack of mods], and i realized that i need to up my game. As i have said before, my brother ignores lore that is inconvenient to him [i.e., anything that refers to the Thalmor infiltration of the Empire being of any meaningful or threatening degree], but then at Elenwen's party, it is dropped that anyone who wants to "do business" in Tamriel must work with the Thalmor. This, of course, leads us to quite a few assumptions about where i might be going with the Merchants Guild as well as the introduction of the Placators [Erikur was one of them; even listening to his bs about "living and working together with the Dominion" makes me want to punch him in the face more than Idolaf "i'm better than you" Battle-Born]. There is also some good news, though, regarding certain characters you might think i've written off.)**

**(If anyone watches _Game of Thrones_, i'd just like to say a few things about the show as far as season 4 [if you haven't seen season 4 or don't want any spoilers, go down below]: the current Mountain actor is literally a Nord right out of Skyrim, 6'9" and, of course, an actual Scandinavian. Ramsay Bolton is _Mayhem_'s Euronymous come back from the dead to haunt Westeros with his bile, the Hound was my inspiration for Sir Viator, i HATE Melisandre and what she represents [i'll let you guess why] and Petyr Baelish is, in my belief, going to win the Game of Thrones and defeat everyone.)**

* * *

**The Great Plague**

They rode on over the rolling hills, trying to put as many miles between them and pursuit as they could. Noon was passing swiftly and the day wore on, and now the trees, which at first appeared only in small clusters of small, scrubby trees here and there, were now growing thicker and more numerous. They were now come to the westernmost eaves of the Great Forest of Cyrodiil. As they rode into the trees, Crixus gave a cry of triumph: surely now they would lose the pursuit in the dense forests. But the others were quiet, for around them were frightful sights here and there. The heads and skulls of men and beasts erected on crude totems appeared before them, blocking their path. Or, perhaps, they were signs of warning, a caution for those foolish enough to dare to trespass in these lands?

At last they were forced to halt their gallop. The sun was still in the sky, but they were weary from their pursuit, especially Drogon. Once the horses were stopped, they practically threw themselves onto the ground, panting and sighing, breathing heavily and nigh to fainting. Only Lethia, who had done no running, was not as exhausted as the others.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Wha-What do you mean?" Crixus breathed.

"I'm of the belief that we can't return to Kvatch, right?" she asked. "So what happens now?"

"We keep going east," Crixus answered, able to breathe a bit easier. "We're nearing the eaves of the Great Forest, so I suppose Skingrad can't be more than a day's journey."

"But the day's almost over, sir," Petruvius sighed. "Do we travel on through the night or make camp?"

"Is there any question about that?" Viator grumbled. "We're not running all fucking night. Might as well give ourselves up to those Kvatch guards."

"We will rest," Crixus added. "This...this is too open. We need to find a better place."

After a little searching, they found themselves a small clearing to the southeast where a pile of stones had been left in the center thereof. They tied their horses to the trees and settled down. Crixus let Shadowmere run free, while Petruvius began examining their supplies. Viator sat off by himself and Drogon began smelling the air and running his large hands upon the ground. Lethia, meanwhile, was more drawn to the pile of stones. They were not like the stones they had seen north of Kvatch: the rocks, though weather-beaten, appeared to have once been carved work of marble, and moss and pale lichen were now growing upon them.

"Is this something magical?" Crixus asked.

"Not like the last place we went to, slave," Lethia replied. "There's...some other kind of magic here. I can feel it. This place...it's not like the other one. The magic here is subtle, all around you like a gentle breeze of clear air. If I were to compare the two, I would call the magical energies around the other ruin a scream and those here a whisper."

"Tch, screams and whispers," Viator scoffed. "More of your religious bull-shite."

"You wouldn't understand, slave," she retorted. "Your mind is as closed as this one's." She gestured to Crixus.

"Sir!" Petruvius called out. "You need to come over here now."

"I'll be right there," Crixus replied. "You, Lethia, see to Drogon. He's got some wounds on him from our flight, I don't want those to become serious." Having given out his orders, Crixus walked over to where Petruvius knelt over their supplies.

"I have bad news, sir," Petruvius began. "We've almost exhausted our supplies. I thought we had more, but I just made an inventory and discovered that we're about done."

"How far can we make our supplies last?" Crixus asked. "If nothing bad happens on the road east, we should be in Skingrad by tomorrow evening." Unfortunately, he also knew that all of his money had been confiscated by Varro and not returned. With his winnings, he might have set up enough rooms for all of them with no questions asked even regarding Drogon. Now, however...

"No farther than that, sir," Petruvius replied. "So unless we find some kind of way of gaining money and supplies, we might be reduced to begging."

"No, it won't come to that," Crixus shook his head. "We'll get to Skingrad in time to find food and shelter. Don't you worry."

"I do, sir," Petruvius stated. "Because I must. Because it's my duty to worry."

"We'll figure something out," Crixus groaned.

They ate very frugally, while Crixus ate nothing at all and, instead, read from the book that had appeared on his chest that night of his dream. The book was intriguing to say the least, read by candlelight spell, but in several places, Crixus saw again and again references to 'the Tower.' As far as he knew, the Tower was one of the birth-signs under the charge of the Thief, his sign. Those born under the sign of the Tower were reported to be excellent thieves and pickpockets, finding lost coins or rich treasure troves in places others would never have looked and being very lucky in the opening of locks. This seemed very odd in Crixus' mind that such a sign with its provincial rewards would be something Mystic mages would aspire towards and seek out.

All that night he continued, reading by candlelight until his eyes became lead and his head a stone that fell onto his shoulder. When at last he awoke, it was to see a figure in a hood wielding a torch at the other end of the clearing. Without a second thought, he drew out his sword and turned towards the newcomer.

"Who are you?" he shouted.

"I am not your enemy, Your Majesty," the voice of a Breton spoke. A hand reached up and removed the hood. A middle-aged Breton woman was there, with blond hair tied back into a utilitarian bun.

"I know you," Crixus stated. "But I can't place a name to your face."

"Delphine," she returned. "I run the Sleeping Giant tavern in Riverwood and, as you might remember, I'm a Blade."

"Yes, I remember that now," Crixus stated. "You fought with us at the Siege of Solitude, and you captured Eirik and I. And now you're here? Has your order deigned to grace us simpletons with your presence?"

"We're not the Greybeards, Your Majesty," Delphine replied. "As you saw at the Siege of Solitude, we fought with your Legions. Our part in these events have just begun, as have your part."

"What are you doing here?" Crixus asked.

"Esbern wished to speak to you after the siege," she stated. "But you left before we could arrange that audience."

"Is that why you tracked me down to Cyrodiil?" Crixus asked. "Just so you could ask me to go back to Skyrim to speak to your master?"

"No, actually," she replied. "In case you don't know, Your Majesty, the Blades have an ancient purpose, and your existence means that our purpose may be fulfilled once again. As the new Grandmaster of the Blades, I have the burden of overseeing our recruitment and the giving of orders. Ragni was made acting lieutenant in my stead; Esbern remains at Sky Haven to restore the records and train the new recruits. I have gone out to seek out Cloud Ruler Temple to be rebuilt and refurnished, to find new recruits...and you."

"Why me?" Crixus asked again.

"You are our Emperor," Delphine replied. "It is your duty to lead."

"And I'm doing my best," Crixus stated. "I've got a plan of my own to unite the Empire against the Dominion."

"Then perhaps you could tell me?" Delphine asked. At this she walked towards Crixus, placed her torch down, drew out her Akaviri longsword and knelt before Crixus, sword held in her hands. "My blade is sworn to your service, and that of the Ruby Throne. My life for yours."

"Heh," Crixus muttered. "Is that what you said to Eirik before you forsook him for another Dragonborn?"

"He's a good warrior," Delphine replied. "But it's not his destiny to rule. It's yours, Crixus; it's in your blood."

"You don't have to remind me," groaned Crixus. "Rise, now. I will tell you what I've been up to."

The others were dead asleep while Crixus told Delphine most of what had happened since his return to Cyrodiil. Delphine listened intently, making no comment until the very end. At last she spoke.

"This is interesting news to say the least," Delphine began. "I'm not too certain about the Merchants Guild, though. They might have connections to the Thalmor."

"Oh, you people!" Crixus groaned. "You're as bad as Eirik, thinking there's Thalmor behind every bush. A paranoid old cunt you are!"

"It's the way I've survived for the past twenty years, being a paranoid cunt," Delphine retorted. "And as I learned in Skyrim last year, the Thalmor _are_ behind every bush. This woman you named, Thwyndilion, I remember the name well: she was one of the Thalmor. She was part of the army that sacked the Imperial City during the Great War. From what I know, she asked Lord Naarfin to personally oversee the atrocities the Dominion forces reeked upon the people of the Capital."

"She never talked about the Dominion during the War," Crixus replied.

"Still, I don't trust her," Delphine stated. "And I worry for the safety of Kvatch now that you've handed it to her on a silver platter. As far as your report on the Synod, this can be expected. Policing the only two mages guilds in Cyrodiil seems like something the Thalmor would do to keep the Empire weak and helpless."

"Maybe it's not the Empire that's weak and helpless?" Crixus replied. "Maybe it's the Empire that's sounding out the strength of the Dominion, keeping our enemies close to learn everything we can about them, all the while rebuilding our strength?"

"If you really believe that," Delphine stated. "Then you're even more naive than Eirik. That kind of thought will certainly leave you open to the Thalmor. But there's more that I should warn you about: even in Skyrim, there are rumors of sickness going about in Cyrodiil. Here, however, ataxia is the least of anyone's problems, what with this plague going about. But there's more to this plague than meets the eye."

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"Do you have a map?" Delphine queried, coming to sit before Crixus. He nodded and folded out the map from his bosom, placing it before them. She pointed to the bottom of the map.

"Leyawiin is infected by the plague, but Bravil isn't," Delphine continued. "Cheydinhal and Skingrad are infected, but Bruma, Chorrol and the Capital aren't. Don't you see the pattern?"

"What pattern?" Crixus asked. "It's just a few cities and counties at random. I see you didn't say the Capital is infected, or Chorrol."

"Because they aren't," Delphine returned.

"So what's the point?" he asked again.

"Why is the plague targeting specific cities and not others?" Delphine asked. "There's something more to this plague than meets the eye. I-I know it sounds crazy, but I think that this plague might be magical in nature."

Crixus chuckled, folding up the map and placing it back into his bosom. "You're starting to sound like those idiot Nords, blaming the collapse of Winterhold on the mages."

"I know it sounds far-fetched," Delphine returned. "But two hundred and thirty years ago, there was a magical plague sweeping over half of Vvardenfell."

"Yeah, because of a Dunmer god," Crixus retorted. "Magic might trump reality, but the nature of a god-like being is much greater than what any mage might do!"

"Indeed," Delphine nodded. "It was just a theory, that's why I need you to verify it."

"_Need_ me?" Crixus asked. "Am I not the Emperor? Do I not order you, not the other way around?"

"If you are to be crowned Emperor," Delphine replied. "You will need a place of power, martial force to back your claim and convince the Elder Council to support you. The House of Nobles for one, but this idea of reforming the Mages Guild and the knightly orders, with the Blades as well, you will be unstoppable. For that, I will need to seek out new recruits and learn what I can. We must work in concert, not against each other."

"Hmm," Crixus murmured. "So, what do you want me to do, then?"

"Go to Skingrad," Delphine stated. "Try to find out if there's anything different there. Anything that might give us a clue as to why the plague is there and not in the other counties."

"I'm guessing the plague is contagious, then?" Crixus asked.

"Of course," Delphine replied. "Wouldn't be much of a plague if it wasn't."

"So how am I to become Emperor if I'm dying of plague?" Crixus asked again.

"From what I've heard," Delphine answered. "The Surilie Family have opened their vineyards and wineries outside of the city as hostels for the people of Skingrad who haven't been infected. You should be able to stay there for a time while you ask questions and make your investigation. If you try to go inside the city, however, then Divines be with you."

"So what happens now?" Crixus scoffed. "Am I to expect a visit from the Dark Brotherhood? Maybe the Companions? Perhaps fucking Sheogorath will show up, wave his staff above us and take us on a wild ride to his plane of Oblivion, the Shivering Isles?"

"Your mockery is not warranted," Delphine stated. "I have only done what I can to help you, as have your companions."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Crixus shook his head.

"You might not have told me everything that happened with your companions, Crixus," Delphine said. "But I've been around a lot of people as the owner of the Sleeping Giant. I'm not a fool: I can guess that, based on your crass and disdainful behavior, you treat your squire and the elf the way you treat Esbern, Eirik and me. It's not wise, you know."

"If I'm the Emperor," Crixus stated. "I can do whatever I want, can't I?"

"They deserve better than this," Delphine replied. "They've given their lives to you, to serve you and protect you, because they worship you."

"Fuck, they don't worship me," Crixus shook his head.

"Petruvius is a soldier," Delphine stated. "You are his superior. He must respect you the same way you would respect your superiors, like General Tullius. As for the elf, if what you told me about her is true, you saved her. She must think the world of you for it."

"She calls me slave," Crixus stated. "I mean, fuck, I haven't been called '_n'wah_' by an elf since I began my post at Mournhold."

"If she is indeed a Snow Elf," Delphine replied. "She has no idea of anything else. You must be patient with her, and definitely not strike her ever again."

"Why not?" Crixus asked.

"You do her a dishonor by striking her when she, like your squire, only wants to help. Sometimes we need those who have a contrary opinion to us to keep us from doing crazy things. You need more than one voice to temper your usual behavior."

"And you need to be wary of yourself," Crixus stated. "Talking to your Emperor like that."

"I'm trained as a Blade," she replied. "I could take out a small cohort of the Penitus Oculatus on my own. And you need to show them the respect they deserve as your loyal followers. Because loyalty is rewarded in the end, and, as I've noticed, those who we meet on our way going up in the world we meet again going back down."

"Heh," Crixus shook his head. "But I aim for the highest position in Mundus. And I always achieve what I aim for: so there will be no going down. So why should I care about seeing them on the way back down? I've been down before, and I always crawled my own way back to the top without anyone's help; not the gods, not the daedra and not any mortal."

"That's a lie and you know it," Delphine knowingly replied. "We both know Eirik would have killed you in Riften if we hadn't interfered."

Crixus felt hot under the collar. "Now _that_, b*tch, that is the lie."

"Your pride will be your downfall," Delphine stated. "It's your pride that won't let you accept our help, your pride that blinds you to the Empire and your pride that drives you to hate the Nord race and fight among them."

"You know nothing, Delphine," Crixus hissed. "I am not proud. If anything, I am the most humble man in all of Cyrodiil."

"Then you will do your duty for the Empire," Delphine retorted. "You must seek out the origin of the plague, stop the Thalmor any way possible, and save the Empire." She bowed her head before Crixus, then rose, sheathed her sword and made her way towards the outer edge of the clearing.

"We will speak again," she added before disappearing into the darkness.

In the morning, there was no sign that Delphine had even been there that night. Once again Crixus ate nothing, sparing their food for the others. Drogon's hunting had ended badly and he spoke little to them. As they were preparing to leave, Lethia approached Crixus.

"There was someone else in our camp last night," she whispered.

"Was there, now?" Crixus asked.

"You forget, slave, that I have keen ears," Lethia replied. "I lived my entire life in darkness, and I hear all that passes in the night. The woman from your camps, she was here. What did she want?"

"She just wanted to give me some stupid, paranoid warnings," Crixus replied. "And to tell me to do what I've been doing. It's nothing to worry yourself over."

Lethia made no response, but the knowing glance in her eyes told that she did not believe all that Crixus had told her, or at least that she knew he was holding something back. Crixus did not hold her gaze, but instead summoned Shadowmere and, once the others were ready, carried on their travel eastward.

"It seems no one has followed us," Petruvius stated.

"You can never be sure of that, boy," Viator grumbled.

For the rest of that morning, they wandered through the forest in silence, always keeping the sight of the sun shining through the trees ahead of them. All around them, the trees seemed to be struggling with the onset of autumn. Some trees were still green, though they had lost most of their vibrant color and were now dull and fading. The rest of them were now in many shades of red, gold, orange and brown. A carpet of leaves rustled with the hoof-steps of their horses or the thick plodding stomps of Drogon.

The sun was now climbing up to its noon-day position when Crixus finally broke the silence and spoke to the others.

"Viator," he called back. "You've been hereabouts longer than most of us. Tell me, what do you know about this plague business?"

"Mostly rumors," Viator stated. "It started in the lower Niben about seven years ago and has been working its way northward, striking towns and villages in its path."

"Is it true that some cities have been hit and others haven't?" Crixus asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I've heard," Crixus continued. "That Cheydinhal, Leyawiin and Skingrad have been infected, but Bravil and the Imperial City have not. What do you make of that?"

"Nothing," shrugged Viator. "There are more people in the Capital than everywhere else in Cyrodiil, so why they haven't caught the plague is beyond me. Also, Bravil has a bad reputation, almost as bad as Bruma or Rifton in Skyrim. If anything, the plague should be striking at those places especially."

"But it isn't," Crixus noted. "I wonder why that is."

"Coincidence," Viator reasoned.

"There is no such thing as coincidence," Lethia added. "Nothing happens by accident."

"See, now that's where you're wrong," Crixus interjected. "Life is an accident, and everything that happens in it is an accident. Like, take, for instance, us; suppose we're on our way east and suddenly a daedra appears out of nowhere and attacks us. There was no reason for his appearance, just...because. And we didn't gain anything from the encounter, except perhaps a few wounds for our trouble. That is how life is, Lethia. Nothing is planned or predestined."

"Remain ignorant, slave," Lethia returned. "But there is a reason behind everything."

Crixus sighed and made no answer. During the silence that followed, Lethia began making several hasty glances over her shoulders, towards the trees. This continued for about an hour off and on, until Petruvius began to be worried and look around as well. There was, however, nothing to be seen. At the end of the hour, finally Crixus noticed Lethia's glances.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

"Listening," Lethia corrected. "I hear something moving in the trees around us. It started about an hour ago."

"Yeah?" Crixus asked. "Probably a fox, a rabbit or a squirrel. Something small like that."

"That's what I thought first," Lethia replied. She had already seen said animals during their travels and was not wholly unfamiliar with them, though they were certainly new to someone familiar only with Falmer, chaurus, shell-bug monsters and the other nameless creeping things of the dark places of the world.

"But it keeps following us," Lethia continued. "And now I hear other movement, as if there are more than one thing following us."

At this, Crixus brought his horse to a halt and looked out at the trees around them.

"What do you think it is?" Viator asked. "Do you think it's those beast-loving animists?"

"Remember those things we saw at the eaves of the forest, sir," Petruvius said to his lord.

"Have you ever seen one?" Crixus asked Viator.

"Not myself, no," Viator returned. "Though I heard quite a bit in my travels. It's said they began to appear in the wilds about the time plague broke out. Ever since then, they've attacked wayshrines, pilgrims, anything to do with the Church of the Eight. Once or twice a few of them will strike at the Primature in Sancre Tor."

"The what?" Crixus asked.

"The Primature," Viator replied. "It's a great temple to the Divines, founded during the Stormcrown Interregnum. The Ecumenical Primates of the Church of the Eight live there when they're not at the Capital, saying prayers or whatever it is priests and primates do."

"Go on, though, about the animists," Crixus said.

"Like I said, I've never seen them," Viator continued. "But what I've heard is that those who see them are never seen again. Sometimes at night, I've heard that one can see the light from their fires in the Great Forest."

"It could be that," Petruvius stated, gesturing to something in the trees.

The riders and Drogon halted as they saw smoke flowing through the trees just up ahead. Warily they made their way there and saw that the smoke was coming from the south. An hour or so later and they were now within sight of the Gold Road, where they saw the source of the smoke. A black and gray pile of ash that had been recently set aflame was smoldering. As they got closer, they saw just what the ash-mound had been made of. Crixus dismounted first and, to his horror, saw the bones of men, women, children, mer and beast-folk lying among the ashes. Into his mind flashed the images of the atrocities in the Imperial City and Solitude. He froze where he stood, gazing upon the burned bodies.

"This place stinks," Drogon muttered. "We leave now."

"Who would do such a thing, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"A sorry end for these fuckers," Viator stated. "Must be the animal worshipers. Civilized folk don't burn their dead."

"Only in great need," Petruvius added. "There were a few pyres back in Solitude after we broke the siege. Not keeping any Nord tradition, mind you, just to keep..." He turned back to Crixus, the wheels of his mind turning upon why he believed these bodies were burned. "We should leave now."

"Servant right," Drogon added. "This mound very sick. We leave now."

"Sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Hmm?" Crixus finally spoke, broken from his shock. "Oh, yes. We'll leave now."

They turned their horses back off the road and into the forest, going back to where they had first seen the smoke. The closer they got, however, the more Lethia began gazing wildly around them.

"What is it?" Crixus groaned.

"They're all around us!" she cried.

"Who?" Crixus asked.

"Whatever is following us," she replied. "It's most certainly no beast, for I can hear that, though there are many of them, they all walk on two feet."

"To arms, to arms!" Crixus shouted, drawing out his Nightingale Bow and fitting an arrow into the string. Viator drew out his broadsword, Drogon pulled a small tree out of the ground, holding it like a giant spear, and Petruvius his gladius. Lethia, meanwhile, took her staff in hand and held an icy spike conjured in her hand. For the moment, there was no activity; no sign of the ones that had been following them.

"Whoever you are!" Crixus called out. "You'd be wise to show yourselves. We're armed..." He cast his eyes at Drogon and smirked. "...heavily. And we're more than willing to kill if you try to attack us. Come out now and you won't get hurt!"

Once more silence fell upon the little glade. The three humans and the mer eyed every tree and stone, though they saw nothing as of yet. The breath of each of the adventurers buzzed in their ears, but especially the breath of Drogon, heaving like the bellows of a forge. Each moment of silence grated on their nerves.

Then at last they appeared, stepping from out of the trees. Crixus was surprised to see them. He had traveled throughout Skyrim under the belief, born out of the prejudice and ignorance of the Dunmer of Mournhold, that there were wild Nords living in the province: barbarians living in shit-filled caves, dressed in the bones of trolls and, if at all possible, even more savage, uncivilized and wild than the average Nords. Aside from the Forsworn, who were Bretons, he saw no such things in all of Skyrim. Even the Skaal were not as savage as the impression given by the Dunmer tall-tales of wild Nords.

He never expected to see such people here, in civilized Cyrodiil. Those who stepped out from behind the trees were dressed in animal skins and bones, with blood painted on their faces and animal skulls upon their heads. They bore staves, axes, clubs made out of logs filled with nails, bows, slings and rocks in their hands. Eying them about, he saw that there were at least twelve of them. They were on a slope, with no good ground for galloping about to flank them, and with all the weapons aimed at them, there was little hope of getting out of them.

However, the moment these men and women in furs and bones saw Drogon, they took a step back in awe, whispering among themselves and pointing at him. After much furtive whispering and scathing glances, one of the men, wearing a headdress of a mountain lion's skull filled with feathers, spoke to Crixus.

"Which one of you has enslaved this noble beast?" he asked, pointing to Drogon.

"Drogon is not a slave," Crixus spoke. "He is a friend of ours, and under our protection."

"You are not followers of the way," the feathered man stated. "Only followers of the way protect and serve the nobility of the forest."

"Followers of the way?" Crixus asked. "Nobility of the forest? What are you talking about?"

"I think they're animists," Viator muttered.

"Speak not the vile names the blind ones call us!" shouted the feathered man, shaking his mace, head of stone and haft covered in feathers and bones, at them. "Or are you blind ones yourselves? You wear their clothes, ride the noble ones as though they were your slaves, and speak their words."

"Look," Crixus spoke. "We mean you no harm, really. Whatever problem you have with the blind ones, that does not extend to us. We do not worship the Eight..."

"The false ones?" asked the feathered man. "You do not worship the false ones?"

"No," Crixus replied. "We do not worship them."

There was a moment of silence, during which those around the feathered man muttered to him. After a while of hearing them, the feathered man lowered his make-shift mace.

"The Great Seer is near," the feathered man stated. "We will take you to him, allow you to speak to him. He will know if the noble ones accept you or not. You must dismount and give your weapons to us."

"Fuck that," Viator retorted.

"No!" Crixus shouted. "It's okay. We'll come without a fight."

Crixus had only been captured twice in his whole lifetime: the first time by the Penitus Oculatus in Cheydinhal, the second time by the bone-mold armored Redoran guards of Blacklight. Being brought to the Countess of Anvil counted not as a capture, as he was not held against his will but summoned. Crixus always thought himself invincible, unable to be caught. Those events had broken that bravado, reminding him of his inability, his weakness. Now, once again, he was to be stripped of his arms and taken prisoner. He chuckled to himself, thinking that, despite his hatred of Eirik, he was once again thrown into a situation which Eirik faced far too much.

As the animists took their prisoners northwest, one who had been watching the now prisoners since they arrived on the road was now watching them being taken away.

* * *

**(AN: A shorter chapter, but thankfully, since that last one just went on forever. Yes, we're bringing Delphine back, since Crixus sort of needs some kind of direction and it will take a while for him to become that direction. As you may have noticed, Viator has kind of forced Crixus to become less of an ass than usual. Drogon's signing up for them seems even more sudden, but i will get to that.)  
**

**(The plague is, of course, magical in nature as Delphine has suggested. It won't be like the plague of undeath from _Warcraft III_ [if anyone can actually remember that], but, unlike Brachus Romulus, who we've heard but not seen, we _will_ get to see the horrifying affects of the plague in Cyrodiil.)**


	19. Divine Intervention

**(AN: For this story, i've had to do a lot of really deep thought and pondering on why people make the choices they do, why people choose to hold on to pain and suffering, even though it hurts them, the value of life, relations and family and why smart people join cults. That was one reason i felt that this story needed some lighter moments, because it's even heavier, subject matter-wise, than the past stories. So much that i feel i must warn you about this chapter, just like with that one from _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ where Eirik experienced Serana's horrific transformation in his own mind. This chapter also has some VERY disturbing imagery [no, i do not espouse or condone such behavior: i'm depicting the depravity of the people in question rather than merely telling you about it. I feel like i was too much on the "tell, don't show" line with Brachus Romulus, there needs to be a little bit more showing here.]: you have been warned.)**

**(We will, in future chapters, have cameos from other characters that we have seen already, and, believe you me, we are not yet done with Jordis the Sword-maiden. Not by a long-shot.)**

* * *

**Divine Intervention**

The animists seemed to know which way they were going, weaving a more or less straight path through the trees, with their quarry behind them, watched at all times. The horses they led, speaking to them ever and anon in low, whispered voices. Drogon they did not lead, for, for some reason or other that he had not yet articulated, he elected to walk with those with whom he had been captured.

As they were walking, the going was very slow. The sun crawled down through the trees towards the western sky, which they were aiming a crooked line towards in their march. Crixus noticed the little clearing with the stones that Lethia had claimed to have a faint magical essence. Though he did not believe in such things, her description made Crixus think of the old wayshrines of Cyrodiil. As a child growing up in Anvil, he had often visited the wayshrine of Akatosh to the east of the city. The stones here were of similar style to those he had seen outside of Anvil. An older wayshrine that had been destroyed during the War would likely have been rebuilt, unless it had been dedicated to the false god Talos. For a moment he wondered why Lethia would have said that there was power there: she should have known that he did not believe in the Divines, Petruvius, as a loyal son of the Empire, would believe anything the Empire told him to believe and Viator and Drogon likely believed in nothing at all. What was the point, if any, in saying that there was power in this destroyed shrine?

The deep blue of dusk had fallen upon the forest as the little party emerged from the thicker parts of the woods and came to a place which they had only briefly seen during the day. They had entered upon a wide ruin of Ayleid origin, as old as the Dwemer ruins in Hammerfell, Skyrim and Morrowind if not older. There were men with torches guarding the perimeter of the ruin and, as they drew closer, the sounds (and smells) of animals wafted towards the newcomers.

The feathered man spoke to some of the guards, then he and his company were permitted to enter the ruin. They had not gone far when a small crowd began to gather around them. Many of the people here were dressed like those who had captured the party, in animal skins and bones, though Crixus noted that there were no distinctions between the men and the women. Men wore tunics and women wore tunics, men wore skirts and women wore skirts; men wore no tunics and women wore no tunics. These people who came towards them looked at them oddly or whispered to each other, giving the newcomers furtive glances. But once the beasts came, they seemed to fawn over them, bowing, kneeling and scraping before them, placing wreaths and garlands of flowers upon their heads and spattering them with blood.

They were taken into a wide courtyard, where many such fur-clad people were gathered about a large bonfire. Some were dancing about it or dancing by themselves, others were eating, some indulging in carnal delights, and quite a few had wood or bone-carved flutes or drums and were making music. The animals were separated and Drogon, who was quite beside himself by the adoration he received, went with them. It was too much for the large beast. He had never been allowed this near to someone he was not supposed to kill, and the very concepts of "friendship" and "love" were alien to him. The others, meanwhile, were told to sit and wait for the Great Seer to arrive.

A few moments later and they began to hear wild cries and chants ringing out throughout the ruin and the attention of all those gathered here turned towards the newcomers. They saw a man approach the great bonfire, one whom all the people seemed to be bowing and revering as much as the animals. The man was dressed in animal skins, like the others, but had a great cloak of many feathers upon his back, and a staff with a bird's skull fastened to the top, with feathers and bones tied and fastened to the staff. A collar of bones was about the man's neck and, while his face was painted with blood that had long since dried black, he bore no skull upon his head. His hair was short, curled and black, the marks of a Colovian man. In fact, aside from the garb, Crixus noticed that all of those gathered here were Colovian or Nibenay. There were no elves besides Lethia and certainly no beast-folk.

The singing, crying, chanting and dancing grew to a feverish pitch. Crixus closed his eyes, Lethia covered her ears and Drogon groaned. At last the bird-cloaked man threw up his hands: the singing ceased, the cries of adulation were hushed, the dancing halted and the drums and flutes were silenced.

"Brother Kutu has brought these in from the wilds," the bird-cloaked man spoke to those gathered. "He has told me that they do not worship the false ones."

"They are dead, they are dead, they are dead!" chanted all those around three times.

"As the voice of the nobility of the forest," the bird-cloaked man stated. "I will speak to them and divine if the nobility will accept them or not. Continue your play: eat, drink and make love, for tomorrow we die!" He lifted his staff up and shook it, at which all those around continued about their business. The man then gestured towards Crixus with his hand. A young Nibenay man, bald of head, approached Crixus and told him to follow the bird-cloaked man. The bird-cloaked man stepped aside to a part of the ruin where few people were, who left as soon as they saw him approach. Once they were there, the Nibenay man took a torch from a niche in the crumbled wall behind them and stood there, holding the torch, while the bird-cloaked man spoke to Crixus.

"Sit down, friend," he said. "There's no need to be afraid. You are among the followers of the way, you're quite safe among us. In fact, I daresay that you are safer here than in the wilds."

"Is that right?" Crixus asked. "And who are you to make such a claim?"

"I was once Drusus Epicurus, a scholar in the Imperial Library in the Capital," the bird-cloaked man stated. "Now I am Sethre the Great Seer, leader of the followers of the way."

"Uh-huh," Crixus returned. "And what is 'the way?'"

"Well, that is the truth, my friend," said Sethre with a smile. "About seven years ago, I was once blind, living in the great cities, eating the fine dishes, pursuing a life of vain knowledge and drakes. Then I received a message from the nobility of the forest. They told me that the time had come to leave the cities and return to the wilds, as our ancestors had done."

"Who are the nobility of the forest?" Crixus asked.

"The beasts of the field, the fowl of the air," Sethre replied. "I was skeptical, as all wise men are, and brought my fears before the priests of the false ones: the weak and feeble, impotent and dead things the blind ones have made as gods and worshiped. They called me a lunatic, a madman, tried to have me killed! So I fled the cities and came into the country-side where I am closer to the nobility of the forest. And it was while I was in the forest that the nobility showed me the truth: the false ones do not exist. They are but idols of wood and stone, made by the blind ones to establish their power. For surely you must have seen this as well, or else you would be blind as well and not have ventured into this land."

"And what do you suppose I've seen?" Crixus asked.

"The hypocrisy of it all," Sethre continued, his neck constricting with quiet passion. "The Dibellans preach love and beauty as a front while they abduct young women into their glorified brothels, whoring them out to strangers at a young age, destroying the flower of our youth. The priests of Akatosh preach about service and duty and honor, all the while the counts lead decadent lives, wholly detached from their duty and service to the people. The priests of Zenithar preach about fairness in business, yet they look the other way as these merchant-thieves run a racket that bleeds the common man dry, all the while begging for more and more money: all of them do! The false ones were made so that certain men could rule over us, imposing a system of laws and morals to control us while they themselves lived like kings off the sweat of our backs. For thousands of years our people have been blind to this truth, following along because they knew no better way."

"And you and your followers are the only ones that can see, is that right?" Crixus asked.

"Right," said Sethre. "Surely you must have seen it as well? The Great War was a disaster that not only broke our land, but shook the very bedrock upon which the Empire was founded and built. It proved that the false ones were indeed false; for, if they were true, could they not have kept the war from happening, or at least kept us from suffering such heavy losses? Then the Empire, the Dominion and the Primature sign their treaty, this White-Gold Concordant, that said that one of the false ones was no longer a god. If the blind ones could rewrite their faith, throwing away this god and that as they saw fit, where was the power in that? It showed again the weakness of the false ones. Then the plague broke out, and again the false ones are powerless to stop it. Do you know why?"

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Because," Sethre replied, leaning in close to Crixus. "This plague is no ordinary pestilence. It is of the nobility, who seek to punish the blind ones for their willful ignorance. Those few faithful I have managed to find I have led into the wilderness, where we have been living for the past seven years, safe from the plague."

"It does not affect you?" Crixus asked.

"No," Sethre replied: a bit too hastily, Crixus noted. "The nobility protect us, shelter us from the peril they have brought upon the blind ones. In return, we glorify them with blood sacrifices, with living away from the blind ones, with endless war waged against them. For all of this, the nobility are doubly generous in that they have shown us the path to immortality."

"Immortality?" Crixus asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You will see this soon enough," Sethre nodded, a knowing look in his eye as he leaned back. "But I see that you are a wise man, one who does not trust things newly given to him. I respect that: you have the aspect of the Owl, the wisest of the nobility. Brother Venthi I name you, in preparation for your formal initiation into the way."

"How do you know," Crixus asked. "That I will accept your way?"

"Because there are only two options, my brother," Sethre replied. "Either you are in the way or you are not in the way. And to come so close to the light, only to turn away into the night, is proof of blindness."

"I see," Crixus noted.

"Now then, brother Venthi," Sethre smiled. "Go join your friends. I will speak to them individually and the nobility will reveal whether you are chosen or not."

"Right," Crixus muttered. "And what are we supposed to do? I have an errand in the east..."

"You can't leave," Sethre stated, the smile having not left his face. "You must be judged under the auspicious eyes of the nobility of the forest. Afterwards, your life will be complete: here you will find all the answers to every question you could ever ask."

"Right," Crixus repeated, then walked off to where the others had been deposited. Once he was back with them, he filled the others in on what had passed between him and Sethre.

"He said," Crixus concluded. "That he'd speak to us separately. Whatever you do, don't mention the Divines."

"Tch, easy enough," Viator scoffed.

"I'm nervous," Lethia muttered. "I see no mer here at all, and if I must be silent in regards to the gods..."

"It might save your life," Crixus stated.

"At the cost of my soul?" Lethia returned. "I will not deny them, no matter what they may do to me."

"Then you are a fool," Crixus retorted.

"Maybe," Lethia replied. "But a fool for the gods, instead of a slave wise in his own eyes and loyal to no one but himself."

"Is there anyone else worthy of my loyalty?" Crixus asked, a grin on his face.

"Sir," Petruvius whispered. "Why don't we tell them who you are? It might..."

"Not a good idea," Crixus replied. "I don't know how they would take to it. Right now, we need to get our weapons back. Do you know where they were taken?"

"Over there," Petruvius gestured, pointing towards a place where the bald man was receiving their weapons from one of the others. He then placed these into a chest, which he locked with a key. Suddenly he turned about, looking towards them, then walked over to them.

"The Great Seer," said the bald man. "Will speak to the youngest of your party." He pointed at Petruvius.

"Remember what I said," Crixus whispered in his ear. "Don't mention the Divines if they ask about them."

But soon Petruvius was swept up and taken before Sethre. Crixus watched them as the bald man brought Petruvius before Sethre, then gave to him the key which he had used to lock away the weapons. Crixus knew now where the key was, but there was one thing he had over Sethre that made him feel even more superior than he often felt around others: they hadn't searched him thoroughly and his chain of pick-locks was still on his person. Once he found the chest, he'd be able to get it open in no time.

A minute or so later and Petruvius returned, his head hung low and a look of weariness on his face. Behind him was the bald man, who told Viator to follow him to the Great Seer. He went without any admonition from Crixus to hide his faith: he needed none. Crixus, meanwhile, asked his squire what Sethre had asked him during their time alone.

"He asked me many questions, sir," answered Petruvius. "Who we were, where we came from, where we were going and what business we had in his forest."

"_His_ forest?" Crixus asked.

"According to him," Petruvius continued. "All the forests in Cyrodiil are under the auspices of the 'nobility', as he calls them, and, therefore, belong to him and his followers. If I may say, sir, he made it quite clear that those who dwelt in the cities, meaning us, sir..." He leaned in and added as a secretive aside. "...are the ones who are invaders, stealing away land that 'rightfully' belongs to him and his people."

"Is he serious?" Crixus inquired. "I mean, I know he said that he was a scholar, but what intelligent man would make such claims or leave the civilized life of the cities to live in the woods and create a cult of his own?"

"I know not, sir," Petruvius shook his head. "But I got the impression that he was a very clever man. The questions he asked were worded very carefully, his arguments flawlessly delivered. Half of the time I was trying to simply keep up with how he had twisted my own answers to his own ends. It was wearying, sir."

"Reminds you of me, eh?" Crixus added in jest. Petruvius did not respond to the jest, which made Crixus give him a shove until he cracked a grin. "So, what did you tell him about who we were?"

"I said we were travelers," he replied. "Refugees, which was why we were not on the main road. Going east, but I gave no greater answer than that as far as destination."

"You should not have given him any direction," Crixus replied. "North, south, east or west. He now knows which way we'll be going if we intend to leave." He did not mention that he also had told Sethre that they were going east. Any mistake he might have done was excusable, not so with his underlings.

"I'm sorry, sir," Petruvius replied. "I answered according to my best knowledge and your wishes."

"Very well, very well," Crixus sighed. "What's done is done. Right now, I can't punish you. Escape should be our first priority."

"We don't know where they've taken the minotaur, sir," Petruvius added.

"I'll ask," Crixus stated. "Once Viator comes back, I'll go back to where their Seer is and ask him where they've taken Sethre."

"Now is your chance," Lethia muttered.

At this point, Viator came lumbering back, a look of displeasure on his face. Clearly whatever spell had entranced Petruvius had not done the same to Sir Viator Matius.

"Well?" Crixus asked. "What did he ask you?"

"That man's a fucking cracked pot, is what he is!" Viator stated, gesturing over his shoulder. "Worshiping animals. 'Oh, excuse me, mountain lion, would you mind if I gave you an offering while you're rippin' me guts out?' And I thought only the Newland Hall or them shady Dunmer corner-clubs in Mournhold had the kind of animal cock-sucking that they have here."

"You mean they actually..." Lethia asked.

"I didn't see any," Viator replied. "But I wouldn't be surprised if there was any of that going on."

"This one comes before the Seer now," the bald man ordered, pointing to Lethia as he approached their little group. "But first, the Seer has asked that her hood be removed."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"It is not permitted to question the Seer's commands," the bald man replied, a look of surprise on his face. "He has ordered that there are no secrets among the faithful, so her hood must be removed."

"Well, she is under my care," Crixus stated, rising to his feet. "And I want to speak to your Seer about this matter."

"It's alright, Larth," the voice of Sethre spoke. Crixus turned to see the Seer, clad in his cloak of bird's feathers, walking towards them. "He is new and has not yet embraced the truth. He does not know our ways." He then turned to Crixus. "We have no secrets here, and the nobility must judge all of you in accordance to your worthiness: and you must be judged with faces uncovered." Suddenly a horn sounded and Sethre turned his attention towards the bonfire.

"Aha," he said with a smile. "It's time for the evening oblation. You must bear witness, all of you."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

Sethre chuckled, the ghost of displeasure passing over his otherwise smiling face. "You must witness the power of the nobility first-hand, and the pure faith of those who defy the false ones."

"What about my companion?" Crixus asked. "The big one. He was with us, your people took him away."

"A big one?" Sethre asked.

"He was a minotaur," Crixus replied.

"Then he is highly blessed," Sethre answered. "A child of the nobility and us mere mortals. I assure you he will be given the respect, love and worship he deserves."

"I want him with us," Crixus stated.

"That may yet be an option," Sethre stated. "But first, come and witness the power of the nobility."

* * *

Sethre ordered Larth and several others to escort the prisoners with him to the bonfire. As they approached, Crixus noted that those gathered around once more began the frenzied dancing, chanting, howling and flute-playing that had consumed them when they first arrived. Thankfully, the noise didn't grow too loud before Sethre held up his hands. All were silent once more, standing with eyes fixated on the form of Sethre, eager to hear what wisdom he would say next. Viator looked at Crixus and rolled his eyes.

"Children," he spoke. "This is my last night with you. Tomorrow, I shall leave for the brothers and sisters in the Great Forest, those under the auspices of the Owl. Remember, therefore, the four homilies that the noble ones teach us: the false ones must be purged from the land, kill the blind ones wherever you find them, destroy every trace of them until the forest reclaims what was stolen from it, and to subject and submit yourselves wholly to the will of the noble ones and their seers and speakers."

"The nobility will guard the forest!" droned those gathered around the bonfire.

"As I am but a humble guest," said Sethre, bowing his head slightly. "I will let your own seer Brother Arnza lead the oblation for this evening. Long may the nobility of the forest guide us and strengthen our hands that we might kill every last one of the blind ones and their false gods. Hail the nobility!"

"Hail the nobility!" cried the people around the fire.

His speech done, Sethre stepped down and the man whom they had seen before, who wore the mountain lion's skull wreathed with feathers, began the oblation. While the singing and dancing commenced, Sethre and the bald man Larth came to take a seat by Crixus and his companions.

"Watch closely, brother Venthi," Sethre said to Crixus. "The evening oblation has begun. The children will now dance and sing and make love, all to summon the nobility."

Crixus watched as instructed. There certainly was quite a bit of dancing as well as music playing. Drums and flutes set the tune and beat by which the dancers weaved their way around each other and around the fire. The songs were not sung in the Common Tongue, or even any tongue that Crixus knew. There were no words in those singing, only noises and gibberish set to music. Crixus also noticed that there were some among them who bore skulls damasked with feathers who bore bowls in their hands and knives in their belts. When they came to the people, they ceased and allowed themselves to be cut, scarred and bled, after which the blood was collected into the bowls and the skull-bearing men continued.

"What are they doing there?" Crixus asked, concerning the cutters.

"They are collecting blood for the oblation," Sethre stated. "It is required that all the children give their blood for the noble ones."

"And you?" Crixus asked. "Do you give your blood?"

"Do you dare question the Great Seer?" Larth asked, his hand upon a club made of bone and stone that hung from his belt.

"Watch on, brother," Sethre said to Crixus.

Crixus continued to look on and saw the dancing and the singing. Many who were dancing now discarded their clothes and swayed naked around the fire. At odd times, two, three, four or sometimes as much as five people would gather together and submit to their passions. He saw pairs of men and women, or both men or both women, cavorting in such a manner, or even multitudes all sharing one man or woman in public, apparently unashamed of their nakedness or of what they were doing. Like children they appeared in Crixus' eyes, doing whatever pleased them at any given time, whenever they wanted.

At last, the one Sethre had identified as Arnza rose up and shook the staff in his hand, sending a rattling noise from the bones thereon.

"I hear the voice of the nobility!" he cried out. "They have honored us with their presence! We shall all bathe in their presence and receive the blessing of their divinity!"

Crixus now saw a group of young people, boys and girls, leading two large beasts between them. One was a bull whose coat was white as snow. The other was a bay horse, strong and sturdy, the kind that carriers and messengers often rode for their deliveries. Crixus' eyes swelled as he recognized the horse as the one he had stolen from the messenger boy in Anvil.

"What are you going to do with them?" Crixus asked Sethre.

"They are the nobility," said Sethre in reply. "We will honor and respect them, as is their due. In return, they will give us their wisdom in deciding what must be done in our lives, both immediately and in the long-term."

"Behold your gods, followers of the way!" cried out Arnza, shaking his staff and rattling the bones thereon.

All the people around the fire congregated towards the beasts, rubbing their hands upon them, bowing and prostrating themselves before them and showering them with kisses. To Crixus' amazement, the beasts were not afraid of the adoration and made no attempts to flee. The men with the knives them approached with the bowls of blood in their hands. Using their hands, they painted the blood on the bodies of the horse and the bull until the white bull was pink and the bay almost black. Once more Arnza rattled his staff and the people began to dance and sing around the two animals.

Crixus believed that he had seen every horrifying thing there was to see in the world. After all, he had seen necromancers in the ancestral tombs outside of Mournhold making love to the bodies they worshiped. He had looked into the face of the Night Mother, an ancient Dunmer woman whose spirit haunted the rotting and dessicated corpse held sacred by the Dark Brotherhood. He had seen the burned bodies and bones of men, women and children in the Imperial City and in Solitude. He had seen a woman burned with fire cling to life just to ask for him to end it. He had seen vampires rip open the throats of unfortunate Dawnguard soldiers during the Siege of Volkihar Castle and watch them bleed to death. Hell, he had even seen Sedris Ulver naked, and she, as he feared as a child and later guessed in his own memories, was at least two hundred years old.

None of that prepared him for what he was about to witness this night. For, in the throes of their oblations and adoration, the people removed their clothes, such as they were, and began taking turns standing before both of the beasts, allowing themselves to be mounted by them. As if that were not enough, some of the ones who had children brought them before the beasts and joyfully told them to do likewise and forced them to do so if they refused.

"Just as I said," Viator whispered to Crixus. "Animal fuckers."

"This is a display of our love and adoration for the nobility of the forest," Sethre said to Crixus.

"This is wrong," Crixus muttered to himself.

"And who are you to judge what is right and what is wrong?" Sethre asked. "To me, it is wrong to give money to the shaven crowns of the priests of the false ones, wrong to bend the knee before silent, impersonal icons of wood, stone and metal that have no power of their own or in represenation, and wrong to call upon the false ones in prayer when truly the blind ones call upon the walls of wood, earth and stone around them when they do so."

Suddenly Arnza held up his staff, shaking it as he did and cried out: "The nobility demand a sacrifice of the blind ones!"

"They must die!" chanted all those around him.

"Bring forth the sacrifice!" Arnza cried out once again.

There was some commotion and Crixus heard all the people around him chant over and over the same three words: "They must die! They must die!" His eyed widened as the crowds parted and he saw a woman and two small children being led towards the fire; the woman had a look of fear on her face and the two children were crying, and both of them were sweating from head to toe. When they came to the fire and were closer to Crixus and the others, he perceived that the woman must be the mother and the two children were hers.

"Behold the sacrifice of the blind ones!" Arnza shouted, lifting his staff above for all to see him. "One portion shall go to the nobility, that they may protect us from the lies of the blind ones and strengthen our arms in sacred battle against them."

"Burn! Burn! Burn!" chanted the people around them, an eagerness in their eyes that Crixus had not seen since the Arena in Kvatch.

Then, to his horror, he saw one of the children taken by two worshipers, a man and a woman, and brought towards the fire. He cried and kicked and screamed and begged for his mother, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Nearby, he saw the others were visibly disturbed by this. Petruvius fidgeted in his place and Viator hung his head, averting his eyes. Only Lethia continued to look on, unperturbed and curious as one is when watching the goings forth of butterflies or insects. Crixus, on the other hand, wanted to look away, but something inside him, a part so rarely exercised it was like to disappear altogether, was coming out victorious after the long night. It reminded him of all the bodies he had seen in the Imperial City and Solitude: it forced him to look on, to see the suffering by fire which the Dominion had reeked upon his people.

The two began to bind the child and, to even greater horror, Crixus saw the woman bring a little naked child from the crowd to help her bind the little one. From the kiss she planted on the boy's head, Crixus was shocked to see that this was a mother who was about to send this other mother's child into the flames. A shiver of revulsion shook through Crixus' being: how could a mother so brazenly commit another mother's child to death and, as he saw when she sent the boy back to the crowds, with a smile on her face? Once bound hand and foot, the man and the woman shoved the boy into the fire. His dying screams and the agonizing cries of his mother were drowned by cheers and shouts for joy from those around the fire. Petruvius vomited and Viator closed his eyes, and Crixus felt his whole body shivering from head to toe.

Truly nothing he had witnessed in his long life prepared him for this.

"The nobility commands us!" Arnza cried out. "Take now the portion due for ourselves, that we may receive the blessing of divinity!"

Crixus watched as those with the knives came again and presented the knives before the eyes of the mother, the child, the bull and the horse. The animals moved not, but the mother and child tried to protest until the blades were drawn across their necks. Then those around them began to tear into their bodies, eating them with their bare hands or cutting open their flesh with knives made of bones.

"What madness is this?" Crixus asked Sethre. To his horror, the seer was smiling as he watched the carnage unfold before him. "You just killed our horse and that mother and child!"

"She was blind to the truth," Sethre muttered. "And raised her children to be blind as well. They deserved to die."

"But the children!" Crixus retorted.

"The children of the blind ones deserved to die as well," Sethre stated, that same smile still on his face. "It is my will that they die."

"And what about the animals, huh?" Crixus asked. "I thought you worshiped them or some shite."

"We worship the nobility of the forest," Sethre stated. "But at the three oblations of the day, we partake in their flesh so that we might inherit their divinity and, when we ourselves die, be reborn and noble ones ourselves."

"This is madness!" Crixus shouted, rising to his feet. "You've deceived all of these people, turning them into your disciples, and for what? What do you get out of all of this, huh?"

"The satisfaction of seeing the blind ones be destroyed," Sethre stated, rising up with Crixus. "It is, after all, the will of the nobility."

"This man is a liar!" Crixus shouted to the crowds, pointing to Sethre. "A charlatan! You have all been deceived by his falsehoods! He is leading you down the path of death, all for his own selfish ends! He only cares about this petty war with the Divines, he doesn't care about you or your children! I saw it in his eyes, the way he watched the child burn!" He turned back to Sethre, a look of loathing in his eyes which he had only used on two people in his entire life. "You were actually enjoying it."

"And why should I not enjoy when the nobility are satisfied?" Sethre asked aloud, his voice still calm and a smile upon his face.

"Great Seer," Arnza spoke up. "What shall be done about this blind one? Shall he join the others?"

"Not yet, brother Arnza, not yet," Sethre replied. "Let him have time to reconsider his falsehoods. They shall remain here with us, but under guard. It seems I must postpone my departure until tomorrow night." There were scattered cheers in response to this knowledge. Sethre then turned to Larth. "Take them away." The bald man hesitated. "Do as I say and take them away!"

"Yes, Great Seer," Larth bowed.

* * *

The bloody feast continued as Larth and two others armed with spears drove Crixus and his companions into a portion of the ruin without a roof. The walls were high but broken in parts, though, from the flecks of torch-light in the darkness, it was safe to assume that this place was not left unguarded. They were left there and the two guards told by Larth to watch them as he left. Once he was gone, Crixus finally turned to the others.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think about our guests?"

"It's maddening," Petruvius answered, his voice hoarse from the acidic vomit coming back through his throat. "Sickening, disgusting! I can't believe this is what Cyrodiil has come to!"

"For once I agree with you," Viator added. "Now, I might not be one for gods and worship, but what they were doing over there? It's fucking wrong, any way you look at it."

"Lethia?" Crixus asked. "You've been awfully quiet. What do you think?"

"What do you want me to say?" she asked. "The slaves want to live in a tribe of their own, away from 'civilized' people, let them do so. Let them be."

"But they're dishonoring _your_ gods!" Crixus retorted.

"They are not hurting me," Lethia replied. "And we have no laws in our tribes against eating raw meat. When one was sick, we would leave them to fend for themselves. If they were injured or old, we would eat them. Only the strong deserve to survive."

"But they're not struggling for survival in the depths of the earth," Crixus retorted, still quivering vehemently. "They have the ability to go back to civilization, eat good food, wear warm clothes and have a roof over their heads. I mean, what are they doing out here, just killing anyone they find who isn't one of them? That's not the Imperial way, that's not civilized!"

"They're _your_ people, not mine," Lethia replied. "I am much more dissatisfied with them killing my horse. I don't relish the thought of having to ride behind one of you slaves."

"This madness will not go unnoticed for long," Crixus stated. "Not by me, once I am the Emperor."

"And how do you plan to become Emperor, then?" asked Viator. "Or in case you haven't noticed, we're under guard and our weapons have been taken from us?"

"But," Crixus noted, holding up one finger to punctuate his point. "They did not bind our hands. And that is all I need."

"What do you mean?" Viator asked.

"You just go to sleep, all of you," Crixus said. "We'll be out of here in no time."

* * *

The oblation continued for at least another hour, then the bonfires were extinguished and only the light of the torches and the stars above could be seen. Crixus, as was his custom, remained awake all that night, watching the others fall asleep. Viator found a spot on the wall against which he rested his back, his eyes on the two who were posted to their guard. To his surprise, he saw Lethia curl up into a ball by Petruvius' feet: as if that were not enough, he removed his cloak and placed it around her to keep her warm.

_How, sir?_ Crixus thought. _How can you still be considerate to that arrogant shite who calls _us _slaves after all we've done for her?_

When he was at last sure that they were sound asleep, Crixus once again turned his words to the only divine beings he actually feared: the daedra.

"Conceal me, Nocturnal," he whispered. "The Agent of Shadow speaks."

Once more there was a rush of ravens, darker than the darker, swarming all around him. Then they were gone and, taking his hint, Crixus rose up and crept as quietly as possible past the two guards. The next task would be even harder, for the followers of the way, these animal worshipers, slept everywhere. Crixus was hard pressed not to nudge, step or prod any of the co-mingled mass of warm bodies all around him. Sometimes one would stir in his or her sleep and shift position; this set Crixus' nerves off and he was forced to move quickly to avoid being trapped under an arm, leg or head as they shifted.

At last, he found himself over the pile of bodies and was seeking out the place he had seen Larth deposit their weapons. They would certainly need them if they were intending on escaping. He doubted even Eirik could have forced a way through all of the fanatics in the ruin with only his Voice, and he certainly would not use the Voice himself for any reason. Therefore he continued his search, peering into every ruined room or section of walls, looking for the chest. He had to be quick, or else he would lose his power and be discovered. After a little searching he found a large chest, one large enough to fit even a medium-sized Imperial Legion shield, such as Petruvius wielded. With a confident grin on his face, he brought forth his lock-picks and, feeling with his hand, found the key-hole. With steady hands, he pushed the picks into the lock and moved them about until he heard a click. Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed open the lid.

There was a hiss and a puff of smoke burst into Crixus' face. He coughed and sputtered, but by then it was too late. He fell backwards, the last thing his eyes seeing was a shape blotting out the stars above.

_We shall speak again_, a voice spoke. At first he thought it was Sethre's voice, but it was deeper, rumbling, and the ground seemed to shake when it spoke. His eyes finally opened and he found himself lying on his back. His body was stiff and did not answer to his commands: only his eyes could see what was happening. The sky was dim in blue with the onset of twilight, and he saw Sethre looking down upon him.

"Did you think I'd let you leave so easily?" he asked. "Your weapons will serve the nobility, and you, brother Venthi, will be sacrificed at tonight's oblation. Your blood, the blood of a Divines worshiper, will satisfy the noble ones."

Crixus tried to speak, but even his tongue did not obey his commands. He was trapped inside his own body, powerless to help himself.

"I see now why you hid your companion's identity from us," Sethre continued. "As a mer, she would have been killed immediately on the place. They are, after all, the ones who created the Divines in their own image to lord their mastery over men: they deserve to die as much as the women and children of the Imperial cult."

Once again, Crixus tried to force his body to move, but to no avail.

"Oh, if only you had been a little bit open-minded," Sethre stated. "You know, yours will be the only death I regret bringing. I see so much of myself in you; an open-minded rebel, beyond such petty things as gods and worship, defiant till the end. You could have been my right hand, and together we would smash every idol, every god, every Divine, and reform this land in our image!"

Crixus' eyes looked up at Sethre, who had a confident, victorious grin on his face. A strong, overwhelming desire to wipe that smug grin off Sethre's face overcame Crixus.

"Yes, that's the truth, brother Venthi," Sethre continued. "I know the animals aren't gods, I know they don't speak to us. But they don't..." His hand pointed away from them. "...and they are hungry for something to believe in, some kind of meaning in their lives. They aren't going to find it with the Empire, weak as it is. They're too close to the Dominion to buy into the lies the Placators preach about harmony with the Altmer. So they find meaning in me, in smashing the Imperial cult, burning the Church of the Eight and One, and destroying from the face of Mundus forever the childish, ignorant and superstitious notions of gods, daedra and worship."

At last, however, the effects of whatever drug or poison Sethre had rigged to be discharged upon opening the chest began to weaken and Crixus was able, after much struggling and foolish mumbling, to force out one word: "Why?"

"Because," Sethre continued, the self-same smug smile on his face. "If I cannot understand and comprehend the gods, then surely the common rabble cannot. Because only by smashing all notions of gods and worship can man truly be free and happy. Because they hurt me, and I wish to hurt them back. Because life has no meaning: and if I must suffer in a world without meaning, I want everyone to suffer with me. You see, I've already achieved the Tower. I've made my own meaning, my own purpose in life: to destroy the gods you and your 'civilized' folk put so much stock in and worship."

Sethre's head disappeared and Crixus heard him call for Larth. Again his face appeared.

"You and your mer whore will be sacrificed tonight," he said. "And your minotaur pet will die with you. The people will be satisfied that they have received the words of the nobility, and I will rest easier, knowing that I've rid the world of two less fools with gods on their lips. Soon, all those who call upon any god, great or small, will die as they should."

Once again Sethre's face disappeared. Then Crixus was being lifted up, or at least someone tried to lift him up. Their diet of raw meat, sometimes that of humans, mer and beast-folk, made these animists weaker than most common folk, and Crixus had the body of a soldier. It took three large men to lift him up and carry him upright forward. His eyes and ears being the only things working, he saw and heard everything that happened around him.

He was taken towards the bonfire pit, which was surrounded by those whom Sethre had called 'children': his followers. As before, they were dancing and swaying and singing and making love with wild, reckless abandon. As they approached them, he could see their faces turn towards him, chanting at him those three words he had heard before: "They must die! They must die! They must die!" Over and over he heard them, until his ears rang with those three words and those three alone, even as the Night Mother's urging command of '_You_ have_ to go forward_' had haunted him all throughout his time in Skyrim.

As they moved him around, he saw the large form of Drogon, standing there, his large head swaying as, without his knowledge and consent, those around him showered him with kisses, wreaths, blood and, even, placed his manhood (or beast-hood as the case may be) into them and their children. Next to him as well was their other horse, the one belonging to Sir Viator. He was then placed upright and tied down, while before him he saw one dragged in place, who was bound and gagged, but still kicking against her captors.

Lethia.

It did not take Crixus long to guess what would happen next. The men with the knives were already cutting the people while he heard Arnza begin the evening oblation. Petruvius and Viator were nowhere to be seen and, without their weapons, Crixus realized that, for the first time in a very long count of years, he was in very real danger.

* * *

**(AN: Another nice, long chapter. I had to end it on a cliff-hanger, though, because, for the first time since _The Dragon and the Bear_, i am actually capable of making a meaningful cliff-hanger! Althroughout _The Dragon of the South_, you kind of knew that Crixus wasn't going to die, so those cliff-hangers were essentially fluff. Now, however, since we are moving forward and not recapping, we don't know what's going to happen. Will Crixus survive? Will his companions survive? What will happen?)**

**(The idea of animal worshipers in Cyrodiil was, surprisingly, my brother's. I say surprising because, while he was big on the idea of "wild Nords" living in caves and wearing troll-bone armor [read. _Morrowind_ fan-boy], he loves the Imperials so much, i didn't think he'd want to paint them in a negative light at all. I did flesh them out, though, taking them on the logical next step, as well as some character development and other such things.)**


	20. Servius Crixus

**(AN: You've waited many long days to read the resolution of last chapter's cliff-hanger. Now, the fate of Crixus and his companions...will NOT be seen in this chapter, so we can instead give you more development on our villain!)**

* * *

**Servius Crixus**

The duties of the Thalmor Ambassador were many, as Lady Arannelya quickly discovered. She would have to meet with each Lord Mayor of the eight districts of the Merchants Guild, the Grand Council of the Synod, the Arch-Canon of the College of Whispers, the Ecumenical Primates, the House of Nobles and make her formal debut before what was left of the thirty seats of the Elder Council. Each meeting was varied and peculiar, though their aims were essentially the same: reaffirming the position and power of the Dominion and what the Thalmor expected of them. Then there were the endless petitions from the Placators, those small-minded humans who believed that the White-Gold Concordant was actually meant as a lasting treaty of peace between the two kingdoms. They never ceased to come to her with their petty requests, though her secretary Neramo had informed her that using them might be beneficial in the long-run.

As if those were not enough, she now had to sift through all of Elenwen's reports that had been brought to her desk from the North. Apparently, after Thelgil's little insurrection, the Nords hunted down and drove out or killed most of the justicars in the province. As far as she knew, only the leader, Ondolemar, and a handful of justicars had managed to escape and flee to Hammerfell. After remaining there in secret, they sent what reports they could save by raven to the Imperial City while they made their way south as quickly as possible.

So it was on the night of the 21st of Heartfire that Lady Arannelya, while deep in her study, pouring over Elenwen's reports, received word that Ondolemar had arrived at her office. She told Neramo to see him in while she continued reading the reports. Twenty-seven years worth of notes, ranging from minute details about the goings on of the local nobility, the 'Jarls' as they called themselves, to startling reports about dragons, were there for the reading. As replacement for both Elenwen and Thelgil, she had to know everything they did about the people she would have to encounter: their strengths and weaknesses. As she was once a general in the Aldmeri Dominion, she knew that information on the enemy was vital to the success or failure of a campaign.

"My lady," Neramo spoke up. He was, like most Altmer, tall, thin and possessing a high forehead and prominent cheek-bones. Arannelya looked up from her desk. "The leader of the Thalmor justicars of Skyrim is here."

"Send him in," Arannelya returned. She was not in the mood for a display of her power and importance by making her own people wait like these human dogs on her whim. The reports she had been reading were disturbing enough and she wanted some answers.

Neramo bowed and went to the doors of her office. They were opened and Ondolemar strode towards her desk, an arrogant swagger in his steps. Lady Arannelya spared him a brief glance before turning back to her work. To her eyes, he seemed to be no different than Thelgil: proud, arrogant and confident in the commonly-known superiority of the mer-race.

"My lady," Ondolemar spoke. "It is a great honor to be in the presence of a hero of the Great War."

"We can dispense with the niceties, my lord," Arannelya stated. "I am a busy woman, and great things are now in motion. Take a seat, my lord."

"I prefer to stand, my lady, thank you very much," Ondolemar replied.

"I've received your letters, my lord," Arannelya began, her eyes still on the stack of papers. "I've been reading through all that you and your agents managed to recover, and I find it all very shocking."

"Shocking?" Ondolemar asked, a cheeky grin on his face. "Is the new Thalmor justicar shocked by the actions of a few barbaric Nords? Surely the Dominion deserves a stronger representative before these human scum."

"Silence!" Arannelya interjected, eyes still reading. "I am not shocked at the actions of the Northern savages." She set down one paper and looked up, disdain on her face. "I am shocked that you and your justicars let a horde of savages ruin our operations in Skyrim."

"My lady!" Ondolemar exclaimed in shock.

"We are not superior, my lord Ondolemar," Arannelya stated. "Not while our patrols are harassed on the roads, our forts being sacked, our embassies infiltrated, our soldiers, our agents and our justicars murdered by savages!" A vein in her neck pulsed as she tried to keep her composure and not punch Ondolemar in his smug face. She was a general and had often enacted corporeal punishment against her subordinates when they had failed her or fled in the face of the Legion. Though the past twenty years had wizened Lady Arannelya, her military training was always there.

But Ondolemar now was not smug, nor was he smiling.

"My lady," he continued. "If you had only read the reports..."

"I've read the reports," Arannelya retorted, somewhat calmer than before. "And that is no excuse for your incompetence. For instance..." She removed one report from the table. "...here is a report to the office of the ambassador, detailing an attack on a Dark Brotherhood coven in Falkreath and the death of its chief assassin, one Servius Crixus."

"My lady," Ondolemar replied. "How is this a sign of incompetence? I read that letter myself and saw that it was written by the High Justicar himself."

"I am aware of that," Arannelya stated. "I am also aware of your close correspondence with this Servius Crixus. Several of these reports are in your hand, detailing the successful capture, torture and execution of Talos worshipers in the Reach, 'with the assistance of the Lady Ambassador's agent Servius Crixus.' Do you deny that you wrote these reports?"

"I deny nothing," Ondolemar retorted, trying to sound confident.

"Then you will not deny," Arannelya continued. "That the contents of these letters displays the incompetence of your justicars, seeing that not only did Servius Crixus survive the Falkreath raid of the 21st of Frostfall, but went on to kill the Emperor and lead both the raid on Northwatch Keep and several battles during Thelgil's control of Solitude. Is that not incompetence?"

"If it is, my lady," Ondolemar retorted. "It is not on my behalf, but on that of my superiors."

"_You_ were the superior, Ondolemar," Arannelya answered. "The responsibility for the success or failure of the justicars falls on your shoulders."

"But, my lady..."

"I also personally hold you responsible for the lack of information," said the ambassador. "These reports detail much success in breaking into houses and abducting Talos worshipers, dissidents and potential threats, yet your agents have no such luck in these other reports..." She placed the other letter back on the desk and picked up a fistful of others. "...these concerning this folk hero, this Dragonborn."

"He rarely came to the Reach," Ondolemar stated. "And when he did, we captured him."

"And yet he escaped?" asked Arannelya. "And once again I see Servius Crixus was involved."

"What do you want of me?" Ondolemar exploded. "To grovel at your feet? To admit defeat like an Imperial human? To humiliate me with a full account of my failures?"

At this, Arannelya chuckled. "No, Ondolemar. I am not like Thelgil. I believe that failure and insubordination should be punished, but not with death. Death only creates more corpses, but a chastened subject _will_ learn from their mistakes. Tell me, my lord, were you in the army?" It was a rhetorical question: she knew that Ondolemar's family was rich and had paid quite a bit of silver (the Aldmeri Dominion reinstated the old silver alds over gold septims upon breaking from the Empire) to keep him out of the army.

"No, my lady," he shook his head.

"I was," she returned. "I was eager to slay humans and see their weak empire brought to its knees. But I learned the value of discipline, leading our troops in Hammerfell. I pushed them and pushed them until they gave me the results I wanted."

"And in the end," Ondolemar retorted. "You were defeated by sand monkeys and invalids from the Legion."

"Careful, Ondolemar," Arannelya returned, a venomous glare in her eye. "I may be merciful when in a good mood, but do not anger me." She placed the letters back down on the table, then turned back to Ondolemar. "Have you heard of the Battle of Llewynn Pass?"

"No, I can't say that I have," Ondolemar shook his head.

"I thought not," Arannelya stated. "Few even back in Alinor recognize that battle. Justianus Quintius never mentioned it in his book, claiming that the Battle of the Red Ring caused the Second Stros M'Kai Treaty, almost five years beforehand." She chuckled. "Reminds me of Ancano's reports from Winterhold and the ridiculous stories of the College mages and their official story for the Great Collapse.

"No, it was a more recent event that caused that treaty to be signed," she continued. "The Battle of the Llewynn Pass. I was there, leading our forces against the 9th Legion. I suspect you've never heard of them either; the Empire did their best to disavow all knowledge of the 9th Legion. Titus Mede was very keen to show my predecessor that he was not trying to violate the White-Gold Concordant." She paused for a moment, recollecting on the Hammerfell campaign and its bloody end. If the Treaty of Stros M'Kai had not been signed, she could have destroyed the 9th Legion utterly. They were cornered, supplies cut off, dying a slow, cold death in the Llewynn Pass with no way to run.

"I put them to the sword," she continued. "Even the wounded and those that surrendered. When you wage war, there must be no half-measures: you kill or you die. The White-Gold Concordant was only signed to put the Empire exactly where we want them and I intend to keep it that way. If you and Thelgil wish to undermine our efforts, then heed me very well when I say that I will not hesitate to act against you as if you were my enemy. Do you understand?"

Ondolemar nodded but said no words. Arannelya smiled.

"Good, then," she returned. "I see no reason why you cannot continue to be useful to me, then, after a sound discipline."

"Discipline, my lady?" he asked.

"Yes," she stated. "For surely it must be a pain, my lord, spending time among these humans, is it not? Here is your discipline: you are to go to Anvil, to our operative there. Work with him and with Thwyndilion to discover all you can about this Servius Crixus."

"But why, my lady?" Ondolemar asked. "All of our spy's reports regarding him were recovered. The Legion never suspected him."

"I've already read Fasendil's report about him," Arannelya answered. "They offer little insight into his character. I want to know everything there is to know about Servius Crixus: who he is, who his family is, where he was born, when he joined the Legion. Everything there is to know about him I want on my desk as soon as possible. Afterwards, you may consider yourself thoroughly disciplined and may return to Skyrim to continue active duty."

"Should we not rather seek after the Dragonborn?" Ondolemar asked. "I know where he lives, who he works with and who his family is. I can have them in our custody in less than a week!"

"He is still in Skyrim," Arannelya returned. "Hunting down your people after your failure. Before we can begin to reinstate our efforts in Skyrim, we must ensure that Cyrodiil is secured."

"Is it not?" Ondolemar chuckled.

"Not while Servius Crixus lives," she replied.

"Then why not kill him?" asked Ondolemar.

"Not yet," she returned. "Not yet. He will be of much greater use to us alive than dead, I think. You have your orders, my lord: see to them at once."

He bowed, then left her office. Meanwhile, Arannelya turned back to her papers. Servius Crixus. The first time she heard that name uttered was from Desideratus Arius, the nominal legate in charge of his court marshal. She had witnessed the fury of the one called 'the Red Dog' in Hammerfell during the Battle of the Llewynn Pass and wanted to know more about him. Too late it had been then, for as soon as she learned his name, she found that he had been exiled. Now he was back again, and working both for the Dominion and the Empire. From the reports, he had been present at the Siege of Solitude but his whereabouts afterwards were unknown.

As an Altmer, she considered all races of men, mer and beast-folk that were not of her own race to be beneath her. Yet that long, cold and bloody battle in the Dragontail Mountains had shown her an enemy that might very well send her own veteran troops, hardened under the rod and lash of her rule, running in fear like cowards. If such an enemy was still alive, she wanted to know more about him. Why had he decided to help the Dominion? Was he as blind as Titus Mede, Lexerus Buteo, General Tullius, the Placators and the Elder Council, to believe that the Dominion wanted to work _with_ the Empire instead of rule over it?

Or was he still the enemy she had seen slaughter a thousand of her own troops in a mad rage that day in the snow?

* * *

**(AN: As you may have guessed, Lady Arannelya is the third "her" in Crixus' life. As you may have also guessed, writing another 8000 word chapter was getting exhausting, so i decided on something lighter. Don't worry, i won't torture you too long because next chapter, we find out what happens with Crixus and co.)**


	21. Wine is Blood

**(AN: I was just reading back on _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ [mostly for reference for my Skyrim playthrough], and aside from the many grammatical and lore errors, i was reminded of when i made my _Blood on Ice_-inspired explanation for essential Mjoll and how everyone hated it and thought it was silly...lol, because you all can accept CHIM, Vivec and Divayth Fyr, but a witch making Mjoll impervious to harm is too much to believe? Also, while we're bringing up that story, i just saw a word count for _Lord of the Rings_ [the book, obviously]: 481,000 to my 523,948 [791,124 if you count the little epilogue of _The Dragon and the Bear_]! It's strange because, while that was certainly a big endeavor, i do not consider it on the same level with the grandiose epicness of _Lord of the Rings_. I mean, it's still fan-fiction, there's gratuitous sex scenes [three if you count Eirik inheriting Serana's memories of being raped by Molag Bal], there's arguing scenes that lag on _ad absurdum_, and there's a scene where Serana hits a cave wall chest first and complains about it [that sticks out the most in my mind as one scene that a lot of you hated]. _The Dragon of the South_ came in at 8,000 words longer than _LotR_, but at least that was more focused, having a central theme and some attempt at character development. It's so strange.)  
**

**(Okay, here is what you've been waiting for, the resolution for how Crixus gets out of this situation.)**

* * *

**Wine is Blood**

Skyrim was not the only place hit by the White-Gold Concordant. The Knights of the Nine, the legendary order of paladins that protected Tamriel from the daedra, were ordered to renounce Talos and become the Knights of the Eight or else face the wrath of the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. Ever since their reformation at the end of the Third Era, when the Hero of Kvatch gave them the Armor of Tiber Septim, they knew the truth that Talos could not merely be discarded by the whim of elves or men: therefore they refused to renounce Talos. Pressed once again between threatening war with the Dominion and slaughtering their own people, the Empire chose the latter. Officially, the combined forces of the Dominion and the Empire slaughtered the Knights of the Nine to a man.

But Boderic Vesnia, formerly of Kvatch, knew the truth. His parents had been knights, dedicated to Stendarr and Mara, and he a squire in the order of Akatosh. They were not outlawed, but by reason of bearing the white tabard with the Red Diamond, the sigil of Pelinal Whitestrake, they were marked for death. Yet in an act of mercy, rare in these dark days, the Empire offered their family this choice: accept exile from the Empire, join the Vigil of Stendarr, a holy order of similar aims to the Knights of the Nine, or remain in the priory and be killed on the morning. Some chose exile, many chose to join the Vigil, as did his parents. They came to Kvatch while their brothers and sisters in the order were slain, guarding the relics of Pelinal Whitestrake from the Dominion.

It was with this knowledge that Boderic Vesnia grew up under the decadent, capricious rule of Brachus Romulus, count of Kvatch. Then, when the plague broke out, the young man who had been raised as a child to serve, protect and give his life for the weak and helpless, sold all that he had, took up arms and left Kvatch to fight in the name of the Knights of the Nine. For many years he had gained a reputation as a hero and protector of the people in Kvatch and Skingrad, fighting bandits, renegades and the Thalmor. Whenever he found the bodies of those who had died of the plague, he piled them up and, as he had seen the healers in Skingrad, set the bodies aflame to keep the plague from spreading.

That was when he saw them approach the pile he had made, sift through the ashes and leave without looking for treasures to steal. One was a beast, possibly some kind of daedra? The other was so foul-mouthed, it could only be the one who called himself the Wolf-Knight. The other three, however, were different. He wanted to know more about them, especially when he heard one of them speak of the Siege of Solitude. Whoever these were had fought the Dominion, and could not, therefore, be wholly evil. Therefore he followed them into the forest, watching as the animal worshipers abducted them. He had not gone into the trap, for years of traveling had made him wary of these people and their wiles. Now, however, he decided to do something that he knew was fool-hardy for the sake of his vows.

He would take them all on single-handedly to rescue people he didn't even know, people who might not even deserve mercy for all he might know. A foolish choice for anyone else, truly, but for one such as he, Sir Vesnia had no choice. The moment he had seen them be captured, the dragon spoke to him and told him of his mission: he _had_ to rescue them.

* * *

"Where are the false ones now, brother Venthi?" Sethre asked as he looked on at the sacrifice about to commence that night. "Let them save you."

Crixus was in a haze, hovering somewhere between life and death, bound and presented before Sethre and his followers with Lethia, Drogon and Viator's horse, sacrifices before their animal lords. The drugs were still wearing off, but it mattered not. He had not his weapons and he could neither shout, nor mutter a prayer to Nocturnal with his tongue or his mind, still heavy from the smoke trap. The fire or the knife would do their job before he had a chance to pull off some miraculous victory for himself.

Suddenly there was a cry and a commotion. Crixus thought for a moment that he was dreaming. He had a similar dream of this sort back in Mournhold, where the Grey Spirit had resurrected corprus and was spreading it from the summit of Mount Kand in Vvardenfell, and the Nerevarine returned on a bone-mold armored guar and drove the spirit back into the void from whence it came. In truth, that had never happened and the last time he was thrown into the arms of death, Babbette had saved him. Now she was miles away, unaware of where he was. Surely this couldn't be Eirik, charging in atop Snow to save the day, to repay him for all the times he had saved him?

"Fly!" he heard a man's voice cry out. "I'll hold them off!"

"No, not yet!" Petruvius shouted. "We have to save them, hurry!"

Crixus saw Arnza raise the dagger to Crixus' throat, but never had the chance to draw it across. A mace came down upon his back and struck him down, the knife scraping harmlessly against Crixus' jacket. A figure passed in front of him, then an armored hand was held out before his face.

"Take my hand!" the newcomer shouted.

"C-Can't," Crixus forced out, sluggishly. "Drugged..."

"Cut me loose and I'll carry him!" Viator shouted.

The figure vanished and Crixus heard once again the sound of battle and commotion. Then he saw Viator come running towards him and picking up the knife that Arnza had dropped. With this he cut Crixus' bonds and heaved him up onto his shoulders, then placed him on his own horse.

"We need our weapons!" Viator shouted.

"There!" Crixus mumbled, gesturing towards where he last remembered the chest to be.

What happened next was so fast that Crixus barely had any time to comprehend it. Instead of Sir Viator, he heard Drogon roar and then stomping foot-steps. There was a shout and then suddenly he felt himself bouncing in a saddle, his head bobbing up and down. In this manner he rode on Sir Viator Matius' horse for a long while, until at last he heard the sound of horse-shoes upon a cobble-stone road: here the company halted. By now, the jostling and riding and cool night air had cleared Crixus' head of the gas that Sethre had placed in the chest and he could move again.

At first he fell off Viator's horse, then staggered back to his feet. Looking around, he saw Petruvius and Lethia on his horse, Drogon covered in blood and carrying a chest in his arms, Sir Viator and his horse behind him, and the newcomer. Both he and his horse were decked in armor, after the old style of the Colovian cataphracts, the knights of Cyrodiil. He wore heavy steel plate armor, similar to Sir Viator, but his helmet was different: a close helm as opposed to a frog-mouthed one. Unlike Sir Viator, he bore a white tabard with a red diamond upon the field.

"Who..." stammered Crixus. "Who are you?"

The knight threw back his visor, though in the darkness, his face could not be discerned. "I am Boderic Vesnia of the Knights of the Nine. And, by the grace of Akatosh, your rescuer."

"Bull-shite," Viator grumbled. "The Knights of the Nine are finished. I know the stories. Empire wiped them out when they refused to bow down to the White-Gold Concordant."

"That is one story, knave, yes," Sir Boderic returned. "But I have heard another one."

"Wait, Akatosh?" Crixus asked. "Did you say Akatosh spoke to you?"

"Tch, are you honestly buying this?" Viator asked Crixus. "I thought you at least would have sense enough not to hold with all this god, spirit, noble ones nonsense."

"Watch your tongue, sir," Sir Boderic warned.

"Or what?" Viator retorted. "Do you think that little club of yours can match my sword?" He turned to Drogon. "Beast, my sword."

"Wait!" Crixus shouted. "I have a fucking headache and you lot are making it worse! Now shut up until I speak to you or I'll start knocking heads here!"

"Tch," Viator scoffed. "Empty threats."

"You, Boderic," Crixus stated, speaking to the newcomer. "You said Akatosh spoke to you?"

"He told me to rescue you," Boderic replied.

"And you're a knight," Crixus added, a grin on his face. "Well, fuck me side-ways, there just might be Divines in Aetherius after all." He turned to Drogon. "Come on, now, get that chest open. Oh, but be careful. I think that fucker Sethre rigged a trap to it. Got shot in the face with some kind of paralysis poison."

"Fucking whore," Viator chuckled. "Shot in the face."

"Really?" Crixus retorted. "Gods above, you're worse than Eirik!"

"And who the fuck is Eirik?" Viator sneered.

Drogon grumbled, then tore the lid off the chest and led its contents fall to the ground. There must have been only one gas trap that was not reset after Crixus was gassed, for Drogon did not pass out. Here the others scrambled for their gear, all the while Boderic watched the trees.

"Why did you rescue us?" Crixus asked, taking up one of his many baldrics.

"I wanted to know more about you," Boderic replied. "And you? You seemed rather pleased when I revealed that I was a knight. Why is that?"

"Only that I've been searching the counties for men such as you," Crixus stated. "The old Colovian knights, I see, are not dead. This is good, this is very good."

"Why are you searching us out?" Boderic asked.

"You will know soon enough," Crixus stated. "Especially since I would have you travel with us."

"Is that so?" Boderic asked. "And where will you be going?"

"Skingrad," Crixus replied.

"To help those afflicted by the plague?" Boderic queried. "Then my mace is yours to command, sir..."

"Right, our names," Crixus replied. He then went around the little circle, introducing them one by one. When he came to Drogon, Sir Boderic seemed a bit perturbed by the beast.

"That doesn't look like any minotaur I've encountered," he stated. "Are you sure it's not something...else?"

"As far as I know, I am sure," Crixus stated. "And as for me, you may call me Crixus."

"As you wish, sir," Boderic nodded.

"I'm not a sir."

"He's the Emperor," Viator interjected.

"Silence, knave!" Boderic retorted.

"No, never," Viator chuckled, then turned to Crixus. "Not until you tell me about this Eirik person. If he was as troublesome to you as I am, he sounds like a decent enough fellow. Perhaps I should meet him."

"Oh," Crixus chuckled. "You wouldn't like him either. He's a Talos-thumping, mead-swelling, elf-hating Nord: if you've met one, you've met them all." He turned back to Boderic. "I have just one question to ask you, sir. Who sent you to find me? Was it Delphine?"

"I don't know who you're talking about, Crixus," Boderic replied. "I followed you of my own accord."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"I saw your party come to one of the ash-pits I made," Boderic began.

"_You_ made that pit?" Petruvius asked.

"Yes," Boderic nodded. "The poor folk who die of the plague must be burned to keep the plague from spreading." He turned back to Crixus. "I saw your group come to the pit, and would have taken you for bandits had you not left them alone and...well, I heard one of you talk of the Siege of Solitude. That was a few months ago, right?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded.

"Well, I just had to ask," Boderic continued. "Did you really fight against the Dominion?"

"Yes, we did," Petruvius proudly stated, a smile growing across his face.

"And just how many people know about that little insurrection?" Crixus asked.

"Not many, I would say," Boderic replied. "Though, of course, our enemies know."

"Our enemies?" Crixus asked.

"The Dominion," he added. "But we've spent enough time here. We are in the land of the animal worshipers and they will be coming for us soon. Let us make haste for Skingrad. We might reach the outer vineyards and fields by morning."

"Morning?" Petruvius asked. "Wait, what time is it?"

"Can't be any later than nine in the evening," Boderic answered.

"And the date?"

"The twenty-first of Heartfire, Fourth Era 202," he concluded.

"Very well," Crixus stated. "Let's get ourselves to Skingrad. We can talk more there."

* * *

They rode on the main road all that night, going as fast as they could manage. It was clear, though, that they would not reach Skingrad before midnight, and they were all very weary. So it was that, after two and a half hours of riding, they came to another clearing that, in the light of Crixus' candlelight, had another mound of black stone untouched by moss or grass in the center. Sir Boderic confirmed their assumptions that these had indeed once been gateways, portals to the fiery Deadlands, the plane of Oblivion belonging to the daedric prince of destruction himself Mehrunes Dagon. According to legend, the Hero of Kvatch and his companions (or her as Crixus knew) went about on a great crusade during the Oblivion Crisis to close shut the jaws of Oblivion to protect the land. Now these black stones were the only living testimony of that great darkness, driven back by courage, brotherhood and Colovian steel.

"Those were simpler times," Boderic noted. "Before the Dominion, or concordats or the weakening of the Empire."

Here in this clearing they made their camp. At Boderic's insistance, they lit no fires. He had told them that they would not be out of danger until they came to the vineyards of Skingrad, belonging to the Surilie family. Until then, they were still in the land of the animal worshipers. They tied their horses to the trees while Drogon was left on his own, and they gathered in a tight circle: it was colder than they had expected and they needed the warmth.

"So, tell me, boy," Viator finally spoke up. "You seem to know quite a bit about these beast-fuckers. I thought everyone who saw them never came back."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "Because I can name at least five right here and now."

"You know what I fucking mean," Viator retorted.

"I've encountered them before," Boderic answered. "They plague all the roads through the forests, from here to the borders of Black Marsh. Stealing cattle, burning villages, attacking pilgrims, intercepting raven couriers. The woods of Cyrodiil are no longer safe."

"I think we've got the idea, alright," Viator nodded.

"Viator, Petruvius," Crixus spoke up. "Tell me, what happened? I mean, I don't remember much, but it seemed as if I've lost a day or something in my reckoning."

"Morning came," Petruvius began. "And Sethre dragged us before him, showing us your body. We thought you were dead until he told us that you had been drugged, trying to steal things belonging to him. It was then that he demanded to know the truth from us and Lethia was unhooded. They didn't take kindly to her, though."

"Why is that?" Crixus asked.

"They hate the elves especially," Boderic replied. "They believe that they created the Divines to enforce their rule over us, and so they hate the elves more than everyone else."

"And what about you, sir?" Crixus asked. "Are you an elf-hater as well?"

"I follow the path of the Divines, my friend," Boderic answered. "It is true that the elves have...not made it easy for us not to fear them. What with the Altmer and the Bosmer in the Dominion and what the Dunmer have done in Cheydinhal."

"What?" Crixus asked. "I've been to Cheydinhal before and nothing's happening over there."

"Which side have you been to?" Boderic asked. "West or east?"

"I frequented the Newland Hall corner-club," Crixus stated. "That's on the west side, I believe."

"Then you have been privileged not to see what the Dunmer have done to the eastern side of Cheydinhal," Boderic answered. "The whole eastern side of the city is in ruins. Houses left empty, rotting, dilapidated. No one goes into the east side unless they be Dunmer, for no one else may go there safely. Looting, pillaging, rapes, blood in the streets. I've even heard that they burned down the Chapel of Arkay that's on the eastern side of the river."

"How can this be?" Crixus asked. "Surely the Count wouldn't let such things go unpunished if they were true!"

"Who, Countess Sarys?" Boderic chuckled grimly. "She locks herself in the keep on the western side of the city, but hasn't spoken out either for or against the chaos on the eastern bank. Any more I cannot say, for all that I know I have learned from travelers going west, fleeing the danger thereof."

"I don't believe you," Crixus replied. "The-The Counts would not deliberately do this to their own people."

"These are not the days of Uriel Septim VII," Boderic stated. "As far as I've heard, the only members of the House of Nobles that still live up to the great name once associated with the nobility are Count Fraseric and Countess Maro. My own count..."

"Is a child-fucking cunt," Viator interjected. "Bastard tried to fuck me himself."

"What ever happened to being loyal?" Crixus asked. "It seems as though everywhere I go in Cyrodiil, someone has some bone to pick with their lords. I thought we stood by our lords, not like those barbaric Nords who kill whoever they don't agree with and call it 'tradition.' This is Cyrodiil, for Divines' sake! We don't just go around killing our...our leaders..."

He hesitated. For too long had he upheld the lies and half-truths about his people. His will revolted against the gainsaying of his mind, his 'education', and told him that, no matter how much he hid it, the truth was always there. Now the cracks were beginning to show. The animal cultists and what he had seen them do showed him just how far the Colovian people had fallen: they had become as how he and the Dunmer viewed the Nord race. More and more he saw the Nords upholding Imperial law and Imperial customs while the Colovians became like them, devolving into savagery, animal worship, living in mud-huts, killing men, women and children, eating raw meat and, to his horror, killing their own leaders. It was not merely a far and distant thing against which he could close his eyes and pretend it was not real.

He himself was part of it.

"That may have once been the case," Boderic sighed grimly. "But things are different in Cyrodiil these days. It's no secret that the Caro family have held their power in Leyawiin since the Oblivion Crisis. There is a proverb about the Caro family: 'as the scythe cuts down the wheat, so the Caro family cuts down all who rise to threaten their power.' And there are other stories closer to home. Count Romulus took power in Kvatch by leaving Count Matius out to die."

"That's not true," Crixus stated. "I-I heard the stories in the Hero's Welcome. He charged out alone against the Dominion forces attacking the city and was cut down."

"Bah!" Viator grumbled. "Rumors and lies, nothing more. I was there myself, as a child, I watched the whole thing."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Petruvius asked.

"This one has the right of it," Viator replied, gesturing to Boderic. "My father ordered the sortie to take the field, but that bastard Brachus held them back. Without them, it was just my father and his personal guard against the Dominion forces. Later, I heard him say that he held the sortie back to protect the keep from the Dominion: tch, he said that publicly, though I knew the truth. The cunt was too cowardly to kill my father himself, so he has those damn elves do it for him."

"And there are other stories, as well," Boderic continued. "The Valga family might have been like Edvald the Wise, only they suddenly found themselves enemies with the Thalmor as well as the people of Skyrim. And the Thalmor weren't content with a 'blood for blood' claim of revenge: they ruined the family without shedding a drop of their blood. Then we have the Carvain family, they were butchered in their beds and their children's skulls bashed in. The official story was that wild Nords did the killing, which gave the people of Bruma the incentive to accept Ingborg as the Count of Bruma: that was fifty years ago. Now Ingborg's son, Edvald, rules Bruma just as savagely as his father. And as for how House Sarys took Cheydinhal..."

"Alright, that's enough!" Crixus shouted. "It-It's late. We'll need an early start, which we won't get if you keep b*tching out the House of Nobles!"

"I did not mean to offend you, sir," Boderic replied. "I speak the truth, as far as I understand it."

"You speak lies!" Crixus retorted. "Dominion lies! The Empire is strong, united, invincible! We-we're the good guys, for fuck's sake!"

"We _were_," Boderic sighed. "That was before the Empire slaughtered the Knights of the Nine because we wouldn't give up Talos."

"That's fucking stupid," Crixus stated. "Why not? I mean, of all the emperors and heroes of our history to revere, Tiber Septim is the worst choice! Why _not_ call yourselves the Knights of the Eight and save yourselves from death? It seems like a waste of life and just stubborn refusal to bend!"

"Watch your tongue, sir," Boderic retorted. "Talos is not some kind of myth that can be thrown out at a whim: he _is_ the Ninth Divine."

"Gods, now you're sounding like those damn Nords," Crixus shook his head.

"Perhaps they are right?" Boderic asked. At this Crixus broke down into laughter; loud, raucous, mocking laughter that made them all stare in disgust. Frustrated and slightly embarrassed, Boderic struck Crixus on the face with his armored hand.

"Fuck!" Crixus groaned. "I have not had a good laugh in a long while!"

"Your mockery aside," Boderic stated. "You were right at the first. We must get to sleep."

"Fine," Crixus returned. "But I'll keep watch."

They began to search the little glade for a comfortable place to sleep. Once again, Crixus saw Petruvius and Lethia curl up together. It was a strange thing, for she never treated him or Viator with any respect, yet after their little capture by the Synod, they seemed to be closer than ever before. Drogon was off somewhere, but, having already camped once with him, he knew that he would be back in the morning if he came back at all. Boderic was saying his prayers while Crixus rested against the pile of rocks, gazing out northwestward from the glade into the darkness. Across from him, Viator lay with his back against the bole of a tree, his eyes closed but his attention on Crixus.

"If there are any Divines," he stated. "And they really sent you to be our next Emperor, they must fucking hate us."

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"You b*tch everyone out over petty shite," Viator commented. "We could be running for our lives or in the middle of a battle, and you'd find time to complain about something. 'I don't like the Nords', 'You're not kissing my arse hard enough', 'We all need to suck the Empire's cock until we're so full of its...'"

"What's your fucking point?" Crixus groaned.

"You're so fucking pathetic," Viator stated. "If you're the best we have, then Divines save the Empire."

"It's not me, you arse-hole," Crixus retorted. "I'm doing the best I can to save my Empire, to uphold its image. You cunts are just being arses to me because you know how to piss me off."

"'It's not me, it's you,'" mocked Viator. "Can't you hear yourself?"

"If you don't like how I handle my affairs, leave," Crixus stated. "There's nothing stopping you. Hell, I even found someone better than you to reform the old knightly orders." It was not entirely true.

"What, him?" Viator asked, gesturing to Boderic. "That loud-mouth, self-righteous cunt? Always stalking the streets of Kvatch, making a noise about how we've failed the Divines, how we need to return to them, recognize the One, all that shite. You wouldn't last a day with him. Now fuck off, I need to sleep."

Viator ignored Crixus and went off to sleep swiftly. Boderic followed after he finished his prayers: one for each of the Nine Divines. He slept by himself, as far from the pile of stones as he could. He and Petruvius slept soundly, both of them snoring loudly. Lethia, on the other hand, twitched and trembled in her sleep. She was wandering in dark places once again, feeling with her hands the cold, clammy walls of slime-covered Falmer dens, hearing the growling, shuffling and howling of her people and the other foul things that gnaw the stone of the dark places of the world. She was in a lower place far below the lights, trapped once again in the darkness. Viator dreamed of lying on a bed of velvet in a high-class brothel surrounded by women of each of the nine races of Tamriel: even an Orc woman for the rough fucking.

Crixus, on the other hand, was trying in vain to keep awake. Boderic and Viator's words stung him to the core. They were both equally blunt, but in different ways. Boderic reminded Crixus of the Empire that he loved and worshiped, and in no uncertain terms reminded him that it was not as he believed it to be. Viator, on the other hand, reminded Crixus of what both he and the Empire had become: pathetic and petty. Both of them told him what he did not want to hear, yet he knew in his heart, from the ancient learning his father had taught him, that he needed to hear. It was not comfortable, of course, and he would resist it with all of his might. Yet the knowledge continued to prick at his mind and heart, refusing to be put out of his mind no matter how hard he tried.

* * *

It was almost morning when Crixus, who was just now beginning to nod off, noticed that something was moving in the trees before him. It was not Drogon, for he had returned shortly and fallen asleep at the other end of the glade. Immediately he got up and drew out his Nightingale Blade and swung it in the darkness. A voice cried out and there was the sound of leaves rustling and a body falling to the ground. Immediately the others were roused by the sound and got themselves back up. Crixus summoned his candlelight spell and its eerie, pale blue light flooded the glade, revealing a bald man clad in animal skins and bones lying on the ground, a fearful look on his face.

"Please, don't hurt me!" the bald man said, his voice deep but his words simple.

"Now, what do we have here?" Crixus asked. "Larth, isn't it?" He turned back to the others. "Looks like we didn't lose pursuit."

"No, no," Larth shook his bald head. "I didn't chase you! Well, I mean, I _was_ chasing you, but not for Sethre!"

"He lies," Viator stated. "He's that Great Seer's right hand, or whatever. Let's kill him."

"No, please don't kill me!" Larth begged. "I'm not an enemy!"

"Fucking liar," Viator muttered.

"Why are you here?" Crixus asked. "Who sent you?"

"No one sent me," Larth shook his head. "I came on my own."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"For you," he answered.

Crixus paused for a moment, turning back to the others.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Kill him," Viator stated.

"It would be wise to do so," Boderic added. "If he was not sent as a spy, his former fellows might come after us in search of him. Nevertheless, we should at least hear him out. Justice demands that we do not kill needlessly."

"That's not what your Vigilants of Stendarr say," Crixus added.

"They are fanatics," Boderic replied. "Meting out vengeance, not justice, against daedric worshipers. Let us hear what this poor man has to say."

"And you two?" Crixus asked Petruvius and Lethia.

"Another slave mouth to feed," the elf muttered. "And did you not say that we had not supplies for such a venture?"

"So that's another vote to kill?" Crixus asked. She shrugged but made no answer one way or another. "And you, Petruvius?"

"I'm in agreement with Sir Boderic," the young man said. "It would not be right to strike him down without hearing him out, but I will abide by your decision, sir, whatever that may be."

Crixus groaned, then turned to the minotaur, the only one who had not spoken yet. "And what about you, Drogon? Do we let him live and speak or kill him now?"

"His people," Drogon muttered. "Kill horses. Eat them. Never trust them. This one different. Hear him."

Crixus turned back to Larth, his sword pointing towards his neck. "Alright, young man, out with it. You said you came here after me, why is that?"

"No one ever speaks up to the Great Seer," Larth admitted. "What you said was different. Made more sense than his words. I wanted to hear more."

"Hear more?" Crixus asked. "Gods above, I'm not an orator. What am I supposed to do with you?"

"Let's kill him already!" Viator insisted.

"No," Petruvius interjected. "He's unarmed and he came willingly. It would be without honor to kill him now."

"Also," Boderic added. "There may be more to his simple words than he can articulate. He may be useful."

"Listen to you," Crixus smirked. "Talking about using people. You sound like the Vigilants of Stendarr yourself."

Boderic said nothing, but frowned and shook his head. Crixus turned down to Larth. "Are you armed?"

"No," he shook his head.

At this, Crixus reached down and picked him up onto his feet. "You'll go with us as far as the next town. After that, I will hear the full account of why you left him. Then I will make my decision."

Viator grumbled. "I still say we should kill him. Mark my words, he's either a spy or an assassin. Keep him with us and he'll lead the beast-fuckers to us, or try to kill you for them himself."

"I'll keep your words in mind," Crixus stated.

* * *

As the morning dawned, they made ready to return once again to the main road and continue on to Skingrad. Petruvius and Lethia rode on one horse together, but neither Crixus nor Viator would allow Larth to ride with them. Boderic let him ride behind him while Drogon walked on behind. An hour or two passed before the trees began to part and a wide plain spread before them. The usually green fields were dull, grey and brown, and many of the trees were filled with red, brown, golden leaves or naked like skeletons. Near at hand they could see wide vineyards stretching out towards wealthy-looking Colovian houses with narrow, pointed roofs. Beyond these rose a gentle hill, much shallower than the hill of Kvatch and less rugged: atop this hill were high stone walls and dark, narrow, sloping spires. But these spires were not rising proudly, but standing in silence, wreathed in black smoke. Tall pillars of smoke were billowing up from the city, shrouding the sun in the eastern sky.

"Behold the city of Skingrad," Boderic stated. "Or at least what's left of it."

"Is this the doing of the plague?" asked Crixus. "I've heard of it, but this..."

"Yes," Boderic nodded. "This is the working of the plague. From what I've heard, this city has been struck hardest by the plague. From the high hills in the west, one can see the pillars of smoke in the day as easily as one sees the lights of the camp-fires of the animal worshipers at night."

"Will we be able to go in there?" Viator inquired.

"No," Boderic shook his head. "The city is under quarantine. Past those fields, the Legion has been positioned to keep people out of the city. As for us, our place will be at the Surilie Manorhouses out here in the valleys." He pointed northward. "There, the Blackberry Hall, we shall stay there." He turned back to Crixus. "We should leave your minotaur out here."

"Why?" asked Crixus. "He shall not be treated as less than any of us."

"He is also a wild beast," Boderic replied. "He will cause a stir, and I would rather not have our comings be known to all."

"Indeed?" Crixus asked. "You're wiser than you appear, young man. Nevertheless, I would not have our friend treated like a beast in the wilds."

"Drogon survive," the minotaur muttered. "Drogon hunt, kill beast lovers."

"But what if we need you?" Crixus asked. "How can we contact you or find you?"

"Drogon leave mark on last tree by Blackberry Hall," he muttered, gesturing towards the vineyard Boderic had pointed out. "Will find you there if need be."

"That will have to do for now," Crixus groaned. "But we will need a better way of calling you." With that, the beast grunted and walked off towards the forest while the others made their way down the Gold Road through the wide vineyards. About a few yards from where they halted, they came upon a place where a well-trodden dirt path turned off the Gold Road and towards the hall in question. Through the fields of grape-vines this path traveled, and, as it was the autumn season, there were many harvesters in the fields around them, on the right hand of the path and the left. The horsemen noticed that the workers were tall, with sun-burned skin, broad shoulders and most of them had fair hair.

"Are all these workers Nords?" asked Petruvius.

"I'd hope not," Crixus replied. "They'd likely drink all the wine in the cellars."

"We'll know soon enough," Boderic stated. "The Blackberry Hall should have an overseer who can tell us whatever we'd like to know about Skingrad and the surrounding areas."

As they went on the path, they found that there were people on the path as well as among the vines. These, however, were not vine-dressers or harvesters, but pilgrims and vagabonds like them. Many were dragging carts behind them or on their horses and donkeys, piled high with treasures, possessions and belongings. On all of their faces, Crixus saw, they had looks of fear, of worry, of sadness. Few even looked up at them, their heads hung down in abject sorrow and despair.

By and by, they came to a large winery situated in the middle of the field. There were around it and going up to it many such refugees and pilgrims as they had seen on the path going there. Keeping the order here they saw men in cuirasses of red leather; red also were their shields, and upon them was a small black field, upon which were two crescent moons, both facing each other, the larger one red and the smaller one white. Several wooden shacks had been set up around the winery, and here they saw many horses were kept. Thither they turned their horses, though after dismounting, Crixus dismounted from Shadowmere and sent him away running.

From here they turned towards the winery and saw that it was indeed great. Two stories it rose, made of stone with high, narrow spires of dark bricks upon the roofs. But over the door they saw a great sign with this charge upon it: a harp, carved like the crescent moon, with grapes hanging upon the upper half. Below this charge were a cluster of berries and these words: _Surilie Family Blackberry Hall_.

As they approached the steps leading up to the doors of the hall, a Bosmer in rich robes of green and red approached them, bowing low as they came.

"Hello, good sirs," he greeted. "Welcome to the Blackberry Hall. The rooms inside are for paying customers only."

"We have coin, good elf," Crixus spoke up.

"In that case, you are welcome to one of our rooms in the hall," the Bosmer continued. "My name is Linghorn, I'm the overseer of Blackberry Hall. If there's anything you need, just speak to me."

"Actually, there are a few things we'd like to ask you, before we go inside," Crixus began. "You see, we're not from the West Weald, so we'd like some news about this place. Just what exactly is it?"

"Oh, well, that's easily answered," Linghorn replied cheerfully. "This farm belongs to the Surilie Family. The Surilie Brothers bought the land two hundred years ago, at the start of the Fourth Era. It's been in the family ever since."

"What can you tell us about the Surilie Family?" asked Petruvius.

"They've been in business in Skingrad for more than two centuries," Linghorn continued. "Started out as a joint enterprise between two Breton brothers, Davide and Gaston, which quickly grew into a family business. Their descendants have kept the business alive ever since, and it's become quite profitable indeed."

"Have things been difficult for them?" Crixus asked. "I mean, what with the War and this plague and all?"

Linghorn's countenance fell at the mention of the plague. "The Great War did not affect our operations. I daresay the Thalmor have a taste for our wine and leave us alone out of their clandestine affection for it. The plague has been difficult, since people are afraid of our city now, but the Surilie Family are determined not to let some plague destroy their business. If I do say so myself, they are responsible for single-handedly keeping our city from being abandoned. Surilie Wine is the blood of Skingrad, a blood which feeds all of Tamriel! Oh, sorry, I don't think you would understand that very much."

"You seem to fancy them quite a bit," Viator stated.

"Well, that's no secret," Linghorn chuckled. "They are, after all, the best thing to happen to Skingrad in a long while. Now, if you will excuse me, I am a very busy man. Go inside when you're ready for a room, though I doubt you'll need one this early. Find the publican, a pale, pasty human named Domina, and give her your money. She'll sort out the rest."

The five of them walked into the winery, and entered the antechamber. Behind a counter there was a woman of middling age, who, despite Linghorn's disparaging remarks, was not as pale as he had stated. She introduced herself as Domina and asked for how many rooms they would need.

"Just one room for now," Crixus stated.

"One?" Viator asked. "For all five of us?"

"Well, certainly, once we've left Skingrad," Crixus added. "We'll need more supplies." He turned back to Domina. "One room, and is there anywhere I could find work?"

"Linghorn is the one you should ask for concerning work," she stated. "Good luck finding him, though. He has his hands full all the time, what with all the refugees fleeing from the plague."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "Now is there anything you can tell us about the Surilie Family?"

"They're like the Black-Briars of Skyrim," said Domina. "Only without the bad reputation. Ever since the Surilie Brothers had families of their own, there are always two houses that run the wineries. The Davideans are the descendants of Davide Surilie, and Gastonans are the descendants of his brother Gaston. Georg Surilie is of the Davidean clan and the oldest of the current generation. He owns Tamika Hall on the southern side of the city, at the mouth of the Strid River, and three others, including this one. Has three children: Armand, Ingwine and little Robyn. Dorian Surilie is the head of the Gastonan clan. He runs the Blue-Cluster Hall and Red Sparkle Winery, which are located near this place. He has two children: Benjin and Elisa."

Crixus was not paying attention, as he turned away from the counter and made for the door without so much as a thank you to Domina. Petruvius, meanwhile, stepped up to speak on his master's behalf: or, at least, to answer something on his own mind.

"Who works the fields here?" Petruvius asked.

"The Nords, of course," Domina stated. "It's not like they're capable of much else, right? All muscles and nothing in their heads, you know. Besides, it's frowned upon to have a Nord to hold a job of skill and education."

"Why is that?" asked Petruvius.

"Well, they're Nords!" chuckled Domina. "They wouldn't know how to hold a proper job, and in more open-minded and cosmopolitan counties, they're not allowed to hold such jobs. Punishment for their rebellious and savage behavior, you understand."

Crixus nodded, but he did not like her words. "Thank you for your time," he added, before looking over his shoulder at his departing master.

"You're welcome," Domina replied. "By the way, if you spend much time in Skingrad, be careful. There are many looters taking advantage of the refugees and the plague."

"We'll be careful, my lady," Petruvius added, then turned back and strode to where Crixus and the others were huddling.

"What are your orders, sir?" he asked.

"We need some food, first," Crixus began. "Then some good strong drink, and then...we need to talk, all of us."

* * *

**(AN: Aside from self-congratulations [as opposed to my usual self-depreciation] and throwing more characters for development into the narrative, i realized that i should really be describing the holds a bit more. After all, the original intent was to show this world for those who may have never seen the original game or such. I hope i did well in this chapter, being as i live in a place where there are many vineyards.)  
**

**(So we've got new characters to introduce and a new conflict to resolve. Remember that reviews are always welcomed, even the critiques [an untempered blade cuts nothing])**


	22. An Unexpected Visit

**(AN: So far we've seen the Count of Anvil as a noble character, but we have not yet seen any of the less than noble counts, those who have the desire to become Emperor [that is hinted at in the dialogue in, i believe, _Skyrim_ and _Oblivion_, so it needs to appear here]. We also have other things happening in this story [to the point that i'm gonna get swamped, lol]. I've also put in a cameo here and a bit in reference to all those who, for some reason, hated _Dawnguard_ [though it followed in the same "interesting but unassociated with hero's progress side quest" DLC/expansion suit that _Morrowind_ and _Oblivion_ had in _Bloodmoon_ and _Knights of the Nine_])  
**

**(Any _Lord of the Rings_ fans reading this story? I'd like to know just how many and, after this but before _The Children of the Dragon_ [the sequel], how many of you would be interested in reading a good story about said saga? There's a shortage of such fics on this site [it's all slash-torture fics involving Legolas or other horrors], and i've always been fascinated by that which the fandom finds least interesting: the Men of Arnor and Numenor and proper stories about the Ringwraiths. Would any of you be interested in reading something like that?)**

* * *

**An Unexpected Visit  
**

The little company walked out of the Blackberry Hall and towards the edge of the fields. While they walked, they cast their eyes eastward, towards the tall, dark spires of the city of Skingrad. Smoke was billowing up from it, but from out of the east a great dark cloud was moving behind it, gathering up behind the sun, threatening rain. Under this dull, dreary sky the travelers halted, standing and looking towards the city. Between it and them they saw camp-fires and tents and the banners of the Red Diamond, the Legion's quarantine line.

"Well, here we are," Viator muttered. "Skingrad, and that looks to be as close as we'll fucking get to it."

"We're not here to argue," Crixus stated. "We have more important matters at hand."

"Like what?" Boderic asked.

"We need to find out what this plague is about," said Crixus. "I've been told that it might be magical in nature."

"Well, then, what are we doing here?" asked Petruvius. "Why don't we make our connections again, try to reform the M..."

"Shh!" Crixus shushed. "Not so loud! I fear that we have been too open with our dealings. Remember when you and Lethia were kidnapped in Kvatch."

"Kidnapped?" Viator asked. "Who did you piss off this time?"

"The Synod," Crixus explained.

"And you got away with it?" he asked. "Fuck me, that kind of good fortune doesn't just come to anyone and everyone."

"I don't think we got away with it entirely," Crixus stated. "For the time being, however, we have lost them. But we can't count on that happening again, nor that we've evaded them."

"Still," Petruvius stated. "I think it would be a good choice, sir, to find others to help us in our endeavor."

"And what are your endeavors, Crixus?" Boderic asked.

"The Dominion has struck first," Crixus began. "They attacked Solitude in Skyrim, and while we have beaten them back, they will come back and in greater numbers. We must be ready for that, especially here in Cyrodiil. Building a strong force to aid the Legion against the Dominion will go a long way in protecting our province and the Empire."

"And what force do we have?" Viator asked. "Just the five of us? Or six if you count the monster."

"Drogon is not a monster," Crixus interjected. "And yes, the five of us for now. But there are others. I have at least three hundred warriors at my beck and call. They will come to fight for me if I ask them. I have another hundred who are a raven's message away from sallying forth to our aid, especially once we reach the Niben Basin. Also..." He looked about, making sure that no one else was around to hear them. "...the Blades have reformed."

"The Blades?" Boderic asked. "The Emperor's personal guards? But they were all destroyed in the Great War."

"They have survived," Crixus stated. "And they will answer me if I call them."

"Answer you?" Boderic queried. "They answer to no one and nothing, only the Emperor."

"And what about you, Sir Boderic Vesnia?" Crixus asked, turning to the armored young man. He had removed his helmet now, holding it under his left arm, and had removed the padded leather cowl he wore beneath it. He was handsome, though more than a little rugged. His hair was brownish red and curled, his chin was damasked with beard stubble and there was a scar upon his forehead.

"What about me?" he asked.

"Where do your loyalties lie?" Crixus asked.

"I serve the Empire and her people," he replied proudly.

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "And what if it were in the best interest of the Empire and her people to do something that was...problematic?" He shrugged at this, choosing his words carefully.

"My dedication to the Divines must come before that," said Boderic.

"And what do the Divines say?" Crixus asked.

"'Stendarr says: be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, give to the needy. Arkay says: honor the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead. Mara says: Live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family'"

"Oh, fuck me," Viator muttered. "It ain't Loredas, we don't need a sermon, boy!"

"'Zenithar says: work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished,'" continued Boderic. Crixus shifted uncomfortably as he heard the words of Zenithar spoken before him. "'Talos says: be strong for war. Be bold against enemies and evil, and defend the people of Tamriel.'"

"Yes, right there!" Crixus retorted, finger pointed at Boderic. "'Defend the people of Tamriel!'"

"You've never believed in Talos, sir," Petruvius stated.

"Shut the fuck up!" Crixus snapped, then turned back to Boderic. "Yes, you see it, don't you? If you believe in the Divines, you have an obligation to defend the people of Tamriel. That overrides any qualms you might have about what must be done to do what is in the best interest of the people of the Empire. Is that not so?"

"Certainly seems so," nodded Boderic.

"Then I can trust you," Crixus said with a smile. "I am a representative of the Emperor, acting upon his wishes to form a fighting force in his name. Will you swear your allegiance to me?"

At this, Boderic stiffened. "The Knights of the Nine are yours to command, my lord Crixus."

"Crixus is fine," replied Crixus.

"Wait a minute," Viator interjected. "I thought you were going to form the Knights of the Lupine!"

"I've never heard of this order!" Boderic retorted. "My family and their friends gave their lives for the Knights of the Nine: as the last member, I will not let them die in obscurity by surrendering my order to another!"

"I'm not joining any holy order," Viator stated. "Eight or Nine, the Divines can go..."

"Wait!" Crixus shouted. "Both of you, shut the fuck up! You're sounding like Nords, b*tching and moaning over little matters!" He pointed to Viator. "You will represent the Lupine Knights..." He turned to Boderic. "...and you will represent the Knights of the Nine. Both of your orders will exist under me. Are you two satisfied, now?"

"Yes, sir," Boderic nodded. "I am satisfied."

"Then here are your orders, all of you," Crixus said, turning to face his companions. "I need you to go around the wineries here, asking questions, finding work. Find out anything you can about hedge knights and the Count. Will you do this, Boderic?"

"As you wish," he nodded, then made his way back towards the Blackberry Hall. Once he left, Crixus turned back to the others.

"Petruvius, Lethia," he said. "I want you to go in secret, try to find out what presence the Merchants Guild and the Synod have in this city. Remember, be careful." He removed from one of his pouches the letter of credit and presented it to Petruvius. "If you have any trouble, show them this and give them my name, as well as where we are staying."

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded.

"Aren't you afraid that I'll be discovered, slave?" Lethia asked.

"I have a feeling," Crixus said. "You'll be in good hands." He turned to Petruvius and winked. The young man smiled, then bowed and then he and Lethia left the group.

"What about us, eh?" Viator asked. "What do you want us to do?"

"Let me think," Crixus muttered. "Larth, what about you? You haven't spoken in a long while."

"I am not from here," he replied. "I lived in Cheydinhal. I know nothing here."

"Good," Crixus stated. "Then you will come with me and we shall see together what has become of Skingrad. It's been many years since I saw these high towers during the Great War. I'd never been farther east than the borders of Anvil, and all of this land was strange to me. Sir Matius!"

"Oh, so I'm a Sir now?" he asked.

"You're coming with me as well," Crixus replied. "Where we're going, I will need your help."

"And where is that?"

"Why, to the city itself, of course," Crixus grinned.

"Even without the Legion encamped around it," said Viator. "I wouldn't go in there, not if the rumors of the plague are true."

"I'm operating on a hunch here," Crixus stated. "But from what I saw in Bravil during the War, if there's one place we might find the Thieves Guild, it would be here, exploiting the lack of people in the city to hide from the authorities."

"You're after the Thieves Guild?" asked Viator. "You're gonna recruit them for your great crusade, Your Majesty? Will there be an Emperor who sits on the Ruby Throne who's a fence or the Guild-master of the Thieves Guild?"

Crixus chuckled. "Oh, Sir Matius, if only you knew."

* * *

They made their way along the edge of the Imperial camp, seeing how far around the city it went and how great was its thickness and the watchfulness of its men. From what Crixus gathered, the Legion here were mustered in force, with at least four hundred men and battle-mages, with guards on the inside as well as the outside. It seemed that the Legion did not only want to keep the people out of Skingrad, but to keep those in the city still inside it. Ever and anon, however, a cart would be brought up to the line of defense and the Legion soldiers would thoroughly examine it. After they had deemed it was clear, the cart was allowed to go up towards the city, in through the gates and towards the Great Highway of Skingrad. For that city had two sides, a northern side and a southern side, divided in the center by the Gold Road with the high walls of the city on either side.

By midday, they had walked up and down the entire western side of Skingrad to examine the Legion's encircling camp. As far as they could perceive, it went all the way around the city and was as strong in one place as it was in the other. After a time, they found a large stone where they rested against it. The day was cloudy and overcast, but Viator's heavy armor made him sweat profusely and Larth was shivering. Crixus, the only one who was dressed moderately comfortably, had not the appearance of one at ease.

"So why aren't we going in there?" Viator asked.

"Into the city?" Crixus asked. "Can't you see? It's sealed up."

"Can't you just walk up there and say 'I'm the Emperor, let me through?'" Viator asked.

"Are you?" Larth asked. "Are you the Emperor indeed?"

Crixus chuckled. "Yeah, that would go over well. Even if they believed me, they wouldn't let me through. Not yet, Larth."

"So what do we do, then?" asked Viator. "Sit out here with our cocks up our arses?"

"We wait," Crixus stated. "Tonight, we will return to the Blackberry Hall and hear what the others have found. But we'll also need to buy supplies. I venture that, by the time we're ready, we will have a small army with us. We won't be able to sleep under the stars anymore. We'll need tents, food, horses, clothes, proper supplies."

"You're certainly organized," Viator added.

"I was lieutenant to General Claxitus of the 9th Legion," Crixus replied. "I've learned much in my time there."

"Then why don't you use that, then?" Viator asked.

"Where were you during the Great War?" Crixus inquired.

"Fighting off a child-fucker," Viator replied aggressively. "Who was the only guardian I had at the time."

"What about you, Larth?" Crixus asked.

"The Great War?" he asked. "I was a lad as well, living in Cheydinhal. Don't remember much."

"Don't any of you read?" Crixus asked. "'_The Great War_' by Justianus Quintius?"

"I can't read," Larth admitted.

"I don't read," Viator replied. "Nothing important in books."

"Well, maybe you should," Crixus stated. "Because you might hear about the 9th Legion. We fought at two of the sieges of Bravil, the Battle of the West Weald, the defense of the Ruby Throne and the Battle of the Red Ring, as well as many minor skirmishes in between. I've seen quite my fair share of action."

"So, what's your fucking problem?" Viator asked.

"We were exiled," Crixus replied. "General Claxitus ordered us into Hammerfell to drive out the remaining Dominion forces, and we were branded as traitors for it. The name of the 9th Legion would mean little to anyone."

"I believe you will find a way into the city, sir," Larth spoke.

"Who asked you?" Viator scoffed.

"Why do you believe that?" Crixus asked.

"You're a wise man," Larth calmly stated. "You opened my eyes to the truth. You will find a way."

"If wishes were wings, I'd be flying by now," Crixus muttered. "Wait, what do you mean 'opened my eyes to the truth?'"

"It is like I said before," Larth said. "No one else has spoken up to Sethre before. Yours words made sense, so I follow you."

"Is that so?" asked Crixus. "Tell me about your life before joining Sethre. What were you?"

"I was a young man, living on a farm outside of Cheydinhal," the bald man replied. "Those were hard times. Reavers would attack farms at random, raiding, pillaging, looting and murdering anyone in their way."

"There aren't reavers in Cyrodiil," Crixus replied.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Larth stated. "But the dark elves believe that Cheydinhal is theirs."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "Can there not be room enough in Cheydinhal for everyone?"

"We don't talk to reavers," Larth answered. "They kill us whenever they find us and rape our women if they find them, but the Countess did nothing, the Church did nothing and the guards did nothing. We were on our own."

"The dark elves wouldn't do this, though," Crixus replied. "They're good people."

"Good people?" Larth asked. "They burn our houses, steal our food, kill and rape our men, our women and our children. They call us _n'wah_s, they say that we're just squatters who have stolen their lands from them. This here is our land, Cheydinhal is! It's been ours for centuries, long before the dark elves joined the Empire! How can you say they are good?"

"Because they're good people," Crixus replied. "They deserve a place to live, just the same as everyone else. Hell, they deserve a place to live even more than the Nords do, since the Nords stole the lands they call 'their own' from elves. Gods, the only reason there are these attacks is likely because of what the Nords have done to them in Skyrim, treating them like second-class citizens. All that will change soon, of course, because now Ulfric Stormcloak is dead and an elf rules New Gnisis, what those savages called 'Windhelm.'"

"Now why do you have a hard on for the dark elves?" Viator asked. "I mean, sure, I've heard the women are a good fuck..."

"It's not about sex," Crixus retorted. "It's about justice for Dunmer society, about the Imperials living up to their cosmopolitan name, about the leaders of the Empire doing correct policy in regards to the Dunmer, about making those damn dirty Nords pay for their crimes! The Empire needs Morrowind more than it needs Skyrim, and the only way we're going to get them back into the Empire is by extending correct policy and justice towards Dunmer society."

"Maybe you'll see things differently," Larth stated. "If we ever go to Cheydinhal. I buried my mother, my father, two brothers and two sisters in our field before Sethre came and showed us the way. Now you came and showed me a better way. But what does it mean if you love them more than us?"

"I don't love the Dunmer more than my own people," Crixus retorted. "I didn't ask to be your savior or whatever. I have my own battles to fight, my own things to do. But for the present, if you wish, there is a task for you too, Larth."

"What is it?" he asked.

"After tonight," Crixus began. "I'll talk to you about it, okay? Right now, however, we need to find some work."

* * *

In the end, there was no work to be found. None at least that any of them had the expertise to fulfill. Mostly there was a great need of healers, but neither of them knew any healing magicka. After scouring the wineries along the western border of the city, they finally made their way back to the Blackberry Hall around six o'clock. Here they came to pay for their room, which was sixty septims. Crixus measured out the exact amount and Domina gave him the key. Afterwards, they followed the general concourse of people to one of the winery's tasting rooms that had been transformed into a bar for the use of the many patrons. There they found Boderic, Petruvius and Lethia awaiting them.

It seemed that they had no more luck than he had. There was no sign of sight of the Synod in the city and absolutely nothing that Boderic could find on hedge knights or Count Remus Hassildor.

"There are rumors of knights around," Boderic added hopefully. "But no sight of them anywhere nearby."

"What about supplies?" Crixus asked. "We're going to need some things before we leave."

"Are we leaving already?" Petruvius asked.

"No, no, not yet," Crixus replied. "But it is an option. For now, however, we must continue our search. I'll also need to send a raven to Solitude. I have...friend there who need to know that I'm no longer in Kvatch."

At this time, a Khajiit walked over to where the group was sitting. As he approached, Crixus noticed that he dropped a note on the ground and then stooped down to pick it up.

"This one let this fall from his pocket," said the Khajiit. "Ra'Zhid has returned it to you, stranger."

"What?" Crixus stammered. "No, I didn't..."

But the Khajiit placed the note in Crixus' hands, nervously looked around, then left before Crixus could stop him. With a frustrated groan, Crixus looked at the note and saw a bit of writing scribbled on it: _Meet me at the distilling vats. Alone._ Below that was drawn a crude sketch of a hand. Crixus recognized the symbol, of course, though this time it did not fill him with dread and suspicion.

"Excuse me, please," Crixus muttered, dismissing himself from their presence to find the distillery. From the tasting room he went to the front counter and asked about it from Domina, but she gave him no answer, saying that it was off-limits. Crixus said nothing but followed a group of servers taking a barrel of wine into the common room. Without being seen, he followed them into a back room and secreted his way into a basement. Here he found large barrels, similar to the ones he had poisoned at Honningbrew Meadery in Skyrim. As soon as he was downstairs, he turned about and saw a small figure, hooded in black, standing behind him, a dagger in hand.

"You're quick, Crixus," a familiar, youthful voice spoke. "Glad to see your skills haven't left you since leaving us."

"Babbette," Crixus turned around. "I haven't left you, I needed to fulfill my duties to the Empire."

"I thought that clown told you," Babbette stated. "You have one duty, and that's to us."

"How did you hear that?" Crixus asked.

She chuckled. "You forget that I'm a vampire. I can hear quite farther than you can."

"So, then, Babbette," Crixus asked. "Do what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Is there something you need or did you feel like coming to Cyrodiil just for a visit?"

"I'm here in secret," she replied. "It's not easy, you know, trying to get somewhere alone while hiding during the day. But I have two reasons for being here, business and pleasure."

"Business first, then," Crixus stated. "I'm in need of some good directing."

"You're the Listener," Babbette chuckled. "You should be directing us."

"I haven't received any messages or visions yet," Crixus stated. "So I don't know what I should be giving you."

"Cicero spoke to me," Babbette spoke. "He said that you needed to go to Cheydinhal and find someone there, an Orc named Garnag, and put a blade through his throat."

"The Keeper tells the Listener what to do," Crixus chuckled. "This should be amusing. Now, what pleasurable thing brought you to me?"

"That other vampire you sent to join us," Babbette stated. "I don't like her."

"Why not?" Crixus asked.

"She looks like a grown-up," Babbette replied, her tone even but filled with annoyance. "But she acts like a child. It's annoying for someone like me. I mean, I'm younger than her but I act more grown up than she does. Can't stand it. I didn't want her to join our family. I want her dead."

"Well, there isn't anything you can do about it, is there?" Crixus asked. "Remember what Cicero would say? 'Do not kill a Dark brother or sister. To do so is to provoke the wrath of Sithis.'"

"I should care, I know," Babbette stated. "But I don't. I hate her. I want her dead. I want you to cut off her head and give it to me to play with. I want to cut out her heart, burn her skin, collect the ashes and use them both for my poisons. That's why you have to do it. I know you can do it. You're not afraid of anyone, not even the Night Mother."

"Yeah, right," murmured Crixus.

"And while you're at it," Babbette added. "See if you can find more recruits for the Dark Brotherhood. So far it's only been the six of us: myself, Nazir, Cicero, Serana, the Night Mother and you. Now you're away more often, Nazir is running the Jaunty Mudcrab all the time, the Night Mother isn't much for conversation, Cicero gives me the creeps and I really want to tear Serana apart every time she opens her mouth. And ever since those Imperials killed Lis, I've had no one to talk to, no one to enjoy the new torture chambers you helped set up. Can you help your family out again?"

Crixus chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

Suddenly Babbette cast her eyes up towards the stairs, then lowered her hood and stepped into the shadows. Footsteps were coming down and Crixus turned thither to see Linghorn and two Skingrad city guards in red and black livery standing behind him.

"There you are," Linghorn stated. "Don't you know this place is off limits to customers?"

"Oh, my bad," Crixus replied. "A-A woman wanted to have a private liaison with me, but when I came down here to meet her, she wasn't around. Women, eh?"

"Well, nevertheless, I'm glad I found you just the same," Linghorn continued. "I'll need to ask you and your companions for your weapons. Imperial law, you understand."

"Why didn't you ask us for them when we arrived here?" Crixus asked.

"I was busy!" Linghorn replied, sounding annoyed and flustered at his lack of promptness in carrying out his own duties. "There are many refugees coming in and out of the vintners, I'm on my toes every minute of the day."

"Is that so?" asked Crixus.

"Look, I don't need any impertinence out of a vagabond wastrel such as yourself!" Linghorn retorted. "I have the city guards with me, and I won't hesitate to use them if you don't cooperate."

"I never said that," Crixus returned. "I'll hand 'em over. It just seems like, if you're a busy man, there should be more important things taking up your time than shaking down travelers for weapons."

"The law states that no weapons may be born within the boundaries of a city," Linghorn replied. "While we might not be inside a city, this certainly counts."

"I thought I heard you or Domina say that there were looters hereabouts," Crixus stated.

"Yes," added Linghorn. "And many ruffians and bandits among the refugees, looking to take their ease at others' misfortunes. So will you kindly give up your weapons or shall the guards take them from you?"

"And how are we supposed to protect ourselves from these ruffians without weapons?" Crixus asked.

"I don't make the laws, I just enforce them!" Linghorn replied, now very frustrated at Crixus. "Take it up with the Count, the Placators or the Elder Council: they're the ones making the laws." He sighed, letting off a little steam. "For now, rest assured that the city guard will protect the people from thieves. Now, then, your weapons."

Crixus once again removed his many baldrics, belts, sheaths and bandoliers, laying them at Linghorn's feet. In them were his sword, his bow, the quiver of arrows and his many knives.

"Now, then," Linghorn said with a smile. "Take us to your companions so that they may surrender their weapons as well."

Crixus led him back upstairs to where the others were waiting for him. It was with great surprise that they saw the Bosmer and a group of city guards behind him, even more so when they were asked for their weapons. Petruvius and Boderic gave up theirs, though Viator and Lethia were reluctant.

"I'd sleep in the forest sooner," Viator stated.

"That might be an option," Linghorn retorted. Behind him the guards put their hands to the swords upon their belts, but Crixus stepped up to mediate.

"There's no need for this," Crixus replied. "We'll all give our weapons up. Won't we?" He turned to Viator. "You certainly wouldn't want to fight the city guards all on your own?"

"Tch, you mean just these two?" he scoffed.

"I'll be sure to call more, if you feel the numbers are too small," Linghorn curtly added.

"We can always get them back when we leave," Crixus spoke. "Now, then, hand them over."

Viator sneered as he gave his sword over to Linghorn: his lance he had left on his horse. Lethia was even less reluctant to relinquish her staff, but for this reason, Crixus was more understanding.

"I am under orders," Linghorn groaned. "All weapons, great or small, must be surrendered."

"I am an old mer," Lethia said, speaking for herself. "I need a walking stick upon which to prop myself. Would you deny me that, little sir?"

"Uh, well, certainly not," Linghorn replied. "But can't your strong companions carry you?"

"I would rather die than have _human_ hands touch me," Lethia stated. "I'm sure you can understand."

"Oh, yes, absolutely!" Linghorn bowed. "As you wish." Crixus also noted that Lethia said nothing about the knife Surius had given her, which was still hidden within her robes.

Once they had relinquished their weapons to the elf, Linghorn bowed and, after flashing them that self-same, smug smile he had presented upon their first arrival to Blackberry Hall, he and the guards left. Viator immediately turned on Crixus.

"I can't fucking believe you're buying into this madness," he added.

"What do you mean madness?" Crixus asked. "It's the law, and I obey it. Even he wouldn't dare violate the law!" He gestured to Boderic.

"Fuck the law," Viator stated. "It's a stupid fucking law."

"Says you," Crixus retorted in typical, Crixian fashion.

"Says anyone with a mind of their own!" Viator replied.

"You defy the Emperor!" Crixus whispered. "That's not something you should be saying out loud!"

"If the Emperor truly did enact that stupid fucking law," Viator grumbled in a low, threatening voice, glaring down at Crixus. "Then let the Emperor punish me for speaking out against it. As it turns out, it wasn't the Emperor after all. It was the Placators."

"How do you know this?" Petruvius asked.

"You forget, boy," Viator returned. "I grew up in Castle Kvatch. I listened in on more than a few council meetings that cunt Brachus and Publius Varro held. Got my arse whipped for getting caught listening in as well, never stopped me." He turned back to Crixus. "What I heard was that the Placators were lobbying for a new law, sometime shortly after the Great War, one that would ban the carrying and making of weapons by anyone but the Legions and the Fighters Guild."

"Why was it passed?" Petruvius asked.

"Why do you think?" Viator retorted. "Those Placators suck tiny gold Altmer cocks like fucking Imga! Anything that is held on the Summerset Isles is considered superior to anything we have here in Cyrodiil. Apparently no one on the Summerset Isles carry weapons in the city limits and the Placators thought it would be a good idea."

"Why?" Lethia asked.

"Get this shite," Viator scoffed. "They actually brought this before the Elder Council, I still vividly remember Varro and Romulus laughing over it. They said that a weapons ban would prevent crime in Cyrodiil because once a criminal comes upon a city or town where no one has any weapons, he'd throw his weapons down and give himself up to the nearest guard. And it fucking passed!" Viator laughed so loud that several other patrons in the Blackberry Hall common room turned to look at him.

"Shameful," Boderic shook his head.

"I think I've had too much to drink," Viator gasped. "I could have sworn I heard the little priest here agree with me."

"I'm a paladin, not a priest!" Boderic retorted, annoyance in his voice.

"And why shouldn't this law be passed?" Crixus asked. "That might be poor reasoning, but the Placators have their hearts in the right direction. I've been to Skyrim, where fucking everybody has a weapon. It's barbaric! The citizenry have no rights to weapons, only the city guard, the Fighters Guild and the Legion."

"That's one of the many reasons I said 'fuck all' and left Kvatch," Viator stated.

"Disarming the people won't deter crime," Boderic retorted, speaking to Crixus. "It will only encourage it. Besides, it will open the door to tyranny if the people cannot defend themselves."

"Who fucking asked you?" Crixus bit back. "Besides, didn't you surrender your weapons to Linghorn when he asked? I didn't see you protesting like Viator here."

"The law might be a bad one," Boderic sighed. "But I am not a rebel. I obey the law merely because that is the way of Stendarr, mercy and justice. Obey the laws of the land until they go against the Ten Commands of the Nine Divines."

"Well I believe that, good or bad, the law must be upheld," Crixus firmly stated. "Because without law, we're just like those fucking Nords in Skyrim." Viator rolled his eyes, but, to Crixus' delight, Petruvius and Lethia did not object. "Now, then, shall we eat and be off to bed, then?"

They ate their food in silence, then followed Crixus up to their room. They were given a guest room on the second story of the Blackberry Hall, with one window that opened to the east, on the city of Skingrad. Boderic found himself a place below that window to rest while Lethia took the bed and Petruvius lay at its side. Larth, who had been quiet all of this time (as he had no weapons and nothing to say regarding the laws of the Imperial City), sat with Crixus at the little table in their room while Viator, as was his custom, rested with his back against the wall. Crixus was going through his personal effects: his chain of pick-locks, the Shadowmere Amulet, his purse with most of their money, the bundle of Severus' letters and the book he had stolen from the Synod Office in Kvatch entitled _Mysticism._ His mind wandered to the book and what he had heard from both its pages and from Sethre about 'the Tower.' That flitted through his mind while his head lolled against his shoulder, sleep overtaking him stronger than usually. His eyesight grew dim and he fell face first onto the table and saw nothing but darkness.

* * *

**(AN: Kind of a boring chapter, but i needed to get the ball rolling on some things that i have been predicting and hinting and building up since _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_. As we also see, while Viator is still an asshole, he is not just only an asshole. He does have certain qualities that some might consider ethically sound. Also, as we have stated before, him and Boderic will serve as the moral poles for Crixus and his decision making, in similar ways to how Bones and Spock served as ethical poles for Captain Kirk in _Star Trek_ [the original one].)**

**(I don't know if i've brought this up, but Crixus is, of course, mistaken about the 9th Legion being mentioned in _The Great War_ by Justianus Quintius. They were left out [as they are in-game] because they were exiled and disavowed: besides, that book is, like _The Talos Mistake_, an apology for the Empire surrendering the way they did: it's just that in the one, they surrendered because "we were wrong" and in the other one "because nobody wanted to keep on fighting". Yet the Empire takes the credit for something that happened five years before the Treaty of Stros M'Kai was signed, even though, based on my fanon, it is more likely that said treaty was signed on account of the Redguards [not the Alik'r who attacked the Legion while they were fighting the Dominion] and the 9th Legion, a "rebel" legion. That will, of course, play into the narrative of this story in time.)**


	23. Reunion

**(AN: Important stuff happening in this chapter, very important stuff. Although I do have one question for you all: should there be another veteran of the 9th Legion that Crixus meets in Cyrodiil? So far we have him, Shaddar al-Malik and Gorak the Giant-Tamer as the only known survivors. Should there be another one? If so, who/what would you like to see? Also, here's another, more thought-provoking question, do you think _Skyrim_'s game developers had a pro-Imperial bias when they made the game? Aside from that douchey captain [ie. Adrianna Pallicki] and the sadistic torturer in the prologue, the fact that they're just gonna kill you because "fuck it" [quite literally], and the Battle-Born clan [with the exception of Jon-Tyrion], the Imperial supporters are depicted as being nice, friendly, open-minded, the educated elite are on the Imperial side [ie, there are more in-game books supporting the Empire than the Stormcloaks] and, as far as the Companions go, they go out of their way to make traditional Nords, with the exception of obviously-not-neutral sell-out Balgruuf, complete assholes. So what do you think?)  
**

**(Also, our little Spy is due for a reappearance, since he was last seen going to Skingrad as far as we know.)**

* * *

**Reunion**

Crixus' mind swam as he moved forward of his own accord, cold grape-vines slapping his face as he pushed through the vineyards. He saw the lines of Imperial soldiers before him and heard, to his horror, his own voice shouting them aside like chaff in a strong west wind. He ran now, through the lines of the Imperial soldiers, as cries rose around him and alarms were being raised. The barricade was under attack. One man had broken through the Imperial lines and was now rushing towards the city of Skingrad. He was running through the camp, pushing aside everyone he encountered, leaping over obstacles and, to his horror, throwing fire-balls; his face set towards the black shadow of the city. A cry was heard and bows twanged, then he went flying towards, pushed as if by a whirlwind, and the Imperial camp around him vanished.

He stood now in a dark no-man's land, where no one living went. Behind him he heard cries and could see lights flashing from the Legion's quarantine of the city. Fires were burning, fires that he had started. But he could not help himself, moving closer and closer to the dark shadow of the city of Skingrad, towards the gates and the great thoroughfare between the north city and the south city. The gates were closed, but still he moved closer towards them. Suddenly there was a jolt, all went dark and then Crixus found himself lying face-down in the grass. A few moments later, he saw a face appear, hooded and shrouded with darkness but with a few strands of white hair hanging down from the darkened hood. He felt gloved hands seize hold of him, then suddenly gasped as he felt his body suddenly compressed, as if sucked suddenly into a Dwemer pipe that was far too narrow. The moment was over as soon as it had begun and he found himself lying in a field surrounded by grape-vines. His rescuer was still leaning over him.

"By Azura," a Dunmer voice rasped: it was nigh impossible for him to determine if the speaker was male or female. "You're a hard man to keep up with."

"What?" Crixus asked. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"In the fields near Tamika Hall," the Dunmer stated. "As for who I am, haven't you guessed it already?"

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked. "I don't recall meeting many Dunmer here in Cyrodiil."

"We haven't met before," said the Dunmer. "But you and I are not strangers. We have kept a correspondence ever since Anvil, which, for some reason, has ended. At first I feared it was those beast worshipers, snatching ravens for their profane rituals, but then I had a stroke of fortune, thank the New Tribunal."

"What stroke of fortune?" Crixus asked.

"I was in Kvatch, about three days ago," the Dunmer continued. "Sounding you out, since no news had come and the ravens hadn't been intercepted. Then an old man met me in the streets. I couldn't see his face, for it was hidden under a hood, but he spoke like one of you westers: he had a long, gray beard and walked with a staff. Said his name was Julius, or something like that: human names all sound alike, begging your pardon. Anyhow, he said he knew where you could find me, and gave me directions to Skingrad, to that very place at that very time. I'd say he was a prophet, but predictions are never that clear...unless they're from the gods. Only thing was he don't remind me of any of the depictions of the lords of Oblivion, and the Old Tribunal never wore beards."

"And who are you again?" Crixus spoke. "I've kept contact with many people, but I don't exactly remember a Dunmer."

"You wouldn't know," said the Dunmer. "And your _n'wahs_ certainly wouldn't have told you. I never appeared to them in person, always sending mouths to speak for me."

"They're not slaves," Crixus replied. It had been almost twenty years since he heard that Dunmeri pejorative used at him and his own. For its use was reserved for the lowest of the low, the dregs of Dunmer society, worse than skooma-eaters, murderers, rapists, child molesters and ancestor-violators: outsiders and slaves.

"The Empire doesn't believe in slavery," Crixus stated.

"Is that right, sirrah?" asked the Dunmer. "Well, I've lived longer than you humans ever do, and I've seen what your Empire does. They were more than willing to let slavery continue, so long as the Houses gave them a cut of the profits of the slave trade. And here, in the land of the _n'wahs_, I've seen what your kind call 'freedom'."

"So why are you here?" Crixus asked.

"Not right here," the Dunmer replied. "We're still in the open. I'll take you someplace safe, where we can talk more."

"Let me get up," Crixus protested. "I don't want to be torn or crushed or whatever the fuck it was you did to me before."

"It was a simple spell of Recall," said the Dunmer. "I Marked this spot in the fields for the return. Just be grateful I picked this spot: if I had chosen one farther away, the discomfort might have been more severe. Weaker, human mages attempting such spells of movement have killed themselves, trying to teleport over great distances without the mental preparation of a grand master."

Crixus pushed himself up, while his hooded rescuer waited for him. Once he was up on his feet, the hooded Dunmer led Crixus through the field to a large storage room near the Tamika Hall winery. They reached the door, where the hooded Dunmer's hand waved and the door's lock clicked open. Crixus followed the figure into the storage room, who summoned a ball of mage-light that hovered on the ceiling, shining its light down upon a large room filled with barrels of wine stacked in huge piles. Once both of them were inside, the hooded Dunmer waved her hand at the door, which sealed behind them and locked.

"You small-minded westers," she stated. "Why you even bother with locks and keys for your doors when an apprentice of Alteration magicka can enter any door they wish and lock it after them, making it seem as though no one has ever been in or out, is beyond me."

"Alright," Crixus replied. "We're in-doors now, so start talking. How do you know me when I've never heard of you?"

"Oh, but you have," the Dunmer replied, hands reaching up to remove the hood. Crixus saw that that, beneath the hood, was an old Dunmer woman with thin, white hair. For a moment, Crixus froze: had Sedris Ulver come back from the grave to haunt him as well as the Grey Spirit? With the hood gone, she removed the veil from around her mouth and a flash of blue sparks eminated from her mouth.

"We may not have met," she stated. "But, you see, we have been in correspondence before. My name is Tiraa Vilenis, I am a battle-mage of the Shield of Hlaalu, and I am your best hope in reforming the Mages Guild."

Though Crixus was relieved to see that it was not Sedris alive again, he was fearful that he had allowed himself to be led into a trap. Tira Vilenis, the initials 'T.V.' He had escaped the Synod only to walk blindly into the arms of one of their agents. His hand reached for his weapon, only to realize that his Nightingale Blade and knives had been taken by Linghorn. Tiraa chuckled at his shock.

"Such a typical reaction," she muttered. "Don't worry, though. If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you myself, or let you walk into Skingrad on your own."

"Pardon me?" Crixus asked.

"What just happened now," said Tiraa. "You were sleep-walking, it appeared. Or possessed."

"'Possessed?'"

"I watched the whole thing happen," Tiraa replied. "You walked towards the blockade without giving a thought, or even a glance, to anyone who came to stop you. I would have stopped you, but, being gifted with forethought, if not foresight, I went back to the field to Mark you while I followed your wake into the no man's land."

Crixus passed his hand over his face, fearing the old woman's words. Immediately, his 'better' half came back: whose authority was this strange woman, that he should believe her? Wasn't she with the Synod?

"Why are you telling me this?" Crixus asked.

"Because we would all be better off with you alive rather than dead," Tiraa stated.

"We?" Crixus asked. "You mean your friends with the Synod, right?"

"I'm not with the Synod," Tiraa replied. "Neither am I with the College of Whispers."

"Then who are you?" Crixus asked.

"I am a very old mer, _n'wah_," Tiraa began. "One who remembers a time before the White-Gold Concordant, before the lords of Oblivion destroyed my people, when Dunmer gods walked among mer in Vvardenfell. I remember when there was a Mages Guild in Tamriel, one that ruled and regulated all mages and magical activities from the Summerset Isles to Morrowind. Everything was better off because of it, and it was only because of your Empire that set us back centuries by giving into fear."

"I'm aware of that," Crixus stated. "So, tell me, if you're not with the Synod or the College of Whispers, who _are_ you with? House Telvanni?"

"Gods, no!" she retorted. "I told you, the Shield of Hlaalu. Anyone who would willingly serve House Telvanni should be slain on the spot! The same goes for those Redoran fetchers."

"Then who are you with?" Crixus asked.

"I am not with anyone," Tiraa stated. "I've lived long enough to see the futility of factionism and revolution. For me, an ordered magocracy is the best thing for everyone. Your letters were the only hopeful thing in over two centuries I've seen towards reforming the Mages Guild. Well, that is to say, the only things of any seriousness."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "In all those long years, you never found anyone more convincing or serious about reforming the Mages Guild than me?"

"Oh, there were others," Tiraa replied. "Certainly many others throughout the long years. The Great Collapse in Skyrim led some to believe that a well-regulated Mages Guild could have prevented the collapse..."

"Oh, fuck me," Crixus groaned, interrupting her words. "Not you too?"

"As I said," Tiraa interjected. "I'm not interested in politics, only magicka. Now are you going to listen to me or will I need to cast a muffling spell to shut you up, n'wah?"

"Fine, I'll listen," Crixus sighed. "But enough with the _n'wahs_!"

"I'll call you what you act like!" Tiraa snapped, then calmed down slightly and continued. "Like I said, there were more than a few people willing to reform the Mages Guild, and more than a few others who had the wealth and connections to evade the Synod and the College of Whispers. Many of them fled to Skyrim, due to its rugged terrain and distance from Cyrodiil and how little you Cyrodilians cared for the North: like you did with our people, I might add."

"Don't call me a Cyrodilian!" Crixus retorted. "It's as fucking bad as _n'wah_. And don't blame us for what happened! We had our hands full, it was you _Dunmer_ who b*tched out and left us!"

"That's not how it happened," Tiraa shook her head. "But, that's all in the past. All those who tried to reform the Mages Guild ended up dead. Those who fled to Skyrim found no welcome among the Nords, due to their mistrust over the Great Collapse, and those who didn't were hunted down by the Synod and the College of Whispers. So when my agents heard your...servants..." This earned a smile and a nod from Crixus, who was grateful that she had not used the word '_n'wah_.' "...asking around, I was intrigued. Very few of those before operated with such secrecy: they always made personal appearances, thinking that kept their secrets safe."

"So what happened?" Crixus asked. "Why did you decide to go with me?"

"Your servants seemed as though they were ones who appreciated secrecy," Tiraa stated. "I am not some story-book villainess who keeps servants too idiotic to know anything beyond their own names, you know. My servants are smart, to a degree, and they know how to read a person by looking at their face, especially those of you humans."

"You have servants too?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "Like you, I also appreciate the value of secrecy. So, after listening to some of the reports they gave, I decided to alight upon your little scheme and cast in my lot with you."

"Just like that?" Crixus asked.

"Just like that," Tiraa nodded. "I mean, I did save your servants from the Synod, and I saved you once again from possession. I would say that puts you doubly in my debt. The least you can do is let me help you from the shadows."

"From the shadows?" Crixus asked. "I thought you were going to be coming with me."

"Oh, no," Tiraa shook her head. "I'm not one for travel. Leave that to the men, to wander about the land, seeking wisdom. Me? The path of wisdom can be found from my spare room as well as upon the open road. But I have many servants, and, if you will let me, I will send them to you if the need arises, to guide you in the search for others that I believe might be of interest in our little quest to reform the Mages Guild."

"Do I have a choice?" Crixus asked, cracking a smile. "They took my weapons and you've locked us inside this wine cellar."

Tiraa grinned. "Circumstances do tend to be against you. However, you don't wear the blue and gold of the Synod, so I'll let you live for now. There will, of course, be questions later, but not now. I've only come this far in response to the lack of letters."

"Oh, right!" Crixus stated, remembering what had occurred in Kvatch after Petruvius and Lethia had disappeared. "I was afraid you were with the Synod."

"A wise course of thought," Tiraa complemented. "I've had many contacts betrayed by Synod agents posing as me. Aside from Count Hassildor, I'm one of their top priorities."

"Wait, Count Hassildor?" Crixus asked. "Remus Hassildor?"

Tiraa chuckled. "He is a Hassildor, but Remus is not his name. That's one of the reasons I intervened when I did, to keep you out of the city. You're better off out here, where some good can be done. In fact, if you would be ruled by me, sirrah, you would come with me to Chorrol. Gregor Fraseric is a good man, as far as Bretons go: he is sympathetic towards our cause and has helped me immeasurably in my work before you came along. Like us, he believes the Mages Guild should be restored."

Crixus grinned. "This is good news. Better than I could have hoped for in a long while. If I believed in the Divines, I'd be thanking them for sending you to me. But..." He rubbed his forehead with his hand, still remembering what she had said about possession. "...I need to find out what's 'possessing' me to do these night actions. This isn't the first time this has happened."

"Really?" Tiraa asked. "When did they start?"

Crixus thought back very hard. It had been a very long time since it first occurred. Thankfully, whatever was possessing him had been dormant during the Siege of Solitude. However, after his rendezvous with the Emperor, he fled to Solstheim once again, where he first encountered the Cult of the Dragon. Afterwards, he returned to Solitude and learned that Eirik had been captured by the Thalmor. It was certainly a shock for the visiting High Justicar in the Blue Palace, seeing the one he had killed with his own hands alive again, strutting about the palace, smiling at him smugly. But the visions hadn't begun until...until...

"Early this year," he finally spoke. "Must have been after the eleventh of Morning Star."

"Do you remember what you were doing at that time?" Tiraa asked.

"I was in battle," Crixus stated. "We all were. A coven of vampires had taken up refuge on an island north of Haafingar, in Skyrim. They had to be put down and I was part of that assault." Jordis was there, he recalled. Though how she hadn't attacked him was a surprise, as was it a surprise for him when he noticed that the armor she wore was a little bigger than normal. He paid it no mind for the present, as taunting Eirik was far more interesting than why his window-dressing former huscarl was wearing armor that was at least a size too large.

"Did anything happen during the battle?" Tiraa inquired.

"Some blood magic caused an eclipse," Crixus explained. "It lasted all day and was over the next. But nothing to me."

"Hmm, interesting," Tiraa mused, stroking her chin pensively. "And what has happened during these times of possession? They've been at night?"

"Invariably," Crixus stated. "As for what happens, it's different. Sometimes I'm seeing things, remembering things I thought I knew, but most of the time I'm walking, hiding, sneaking, breaking into places, always looking for something."

"Where are you breaking into?" Tiraa asked, a keen, wary look in her red eyes.

"Synod offices," Crixus replied.

"And what is the nature of the things you've been seeking during these visions?" Tiraa asked.

"I'm not sure," Crixus shook his head. "I can barely remember. I do remember breaking into the office in Kvatch, and stealing a book. I was hit by a fire-bolt while leaving, it woke me up, and I dragged myself back."

"Very interesting," Tiraa stated. "Well, from what I know, you don't seem to be possessed."

"Then why did you say..."

"I said it seemed like possession," Tiraa clarified. "Now that you mention it, it seems to be something more, some kind of magic I've never encountered before. Very old magic, very powerful magic. I will have to do my own research into this matter. Tell me, this book you stole, what was it about?"

"Mysticism," Crixus answered. At this, Tiraa's expression lightened up.

"Indeed?" she asked. "Well, then, you happen to be in luck. As it turns out, Mysticism is a subject which I have studied extensively. In truth, I believe the Third Rumaran Council was wrong in discontinuing its study. Perhaps I shall like to have a look at this book of yours. Maybe in it we will find what you were seeking while plundering the offices of the Synod, as well as why you risked your life to enter a plagued city."

"As always," Crixus smiled. "The generosity of the Dunmer is criminally underrated."

"Here, take this," Tiraa said, handing Crixus a tiny amulet made of Morrowind ebony. "It's enchanted so that I'll always know where to find you if I need to."

"Don't you have some spell for that?" Crixus asked.

"I'm not a scryer," she retorted. "I can't keep watch over you with some kind of magic crystal ball like a witch in your wester stories!" She chuckled. "But a simple Clairvoyance illusion might help me find that stone, even when you don't want to be found." At this, Tiraa waved her hand and there was a click on the door behind him.

"It's open, you're free to go," she stated. "I will keep in touch, though I would prefer that you come to Chorrol, where we may work under less dangerous circumstances."

"Thank you," Crixus nodded. "It's ironic: I've come back to my native land, and yet it took a Dunmer to show me any measure of respect or kindness."

"Nerevar guide you, sirrah," Tiraa said, lowering her hood back down as Crixus walked out into the night.

* * *

Crixus found that the walk from Tamika Hall to Blackberry Hall took him the rest of that night, as he would be walking from the southern end of the city to the western end alone at night, and without a weapon. He kept his head down, thinking on what Tiraa Vilenis had told him. It seemed like a gift, though from whom he could not guess. He guessed that Delphine did not send her to him, as if Vilenis was a Blade, she would have mentioned them.

About an hour after he left Tamika Hall, he saw the light of torches coming from the aisle between two large fields. Immediately, he crouched down and looked ahead through the grape-vine row in which he found himself. Before he saw four men with torches carrying a wagon through the aisle. He heard them speaking and, eager to hear what they were saying, crept through the row to hear what they were saying.

"I hate this job," he heard one, a Nibenay, complain.

"Who likes this?" another, a Colovian, drawled. "But we have to do it. Master Surilie's orders."

"Why should we even have to put up with this?" the Nibenay man asked. "We don't know if they take them or not. We just come back out here at dusk and take the empty carts back. For all we know, animals dragged them off, or those sorcerers from the College of Whispers."

"What's the matter?" an Argonian's rasping voice asked. "Are you afraid, pink-skin?"

"Shouldn't you be?" asked the Nibenay. "You do know what we're carrying!"

"I do," the Argonain replied. "And it doesn't bother me."

"Shh!" another Colovian man shushed, his voice wary and fearful. "Quiet, all of you. We're just about there. You don't want them breathing down our backs, now, do you?"

"Bah!" the fearful Nibenay retorted. "Damn the Order! Who's the power in Skingrad, this shadow Order or the Surilie Family? We should just say enough is enough and stop this madness!"

"Silence!" the second Colovian, who seemed to be their leader, barked. "We're here, start unloading the cart."

Thirty minutes passed as Crixus lay front down in the field, the four Colovians and their torches meandering off to the right. He could still see the light of their torches and the heaving groans as heavy objects were being lifted out of their cart. They spoke no more words, and Crixus swore he could hear fearful mutterings being whispered by one of them, likely the Nibenay, to the Eight Divines. After thirty minutes had ended, the torches bobbed back leftward and Crixus pressed himself closer to the ground as they passed by his row. They left without looking through the rows of vines and, before long, the light of their torches vanished into the darkness off to his left.

Once he was sure that they were gone, he himself rose up and walked over to the long lane between the two fields of grape-vines. The moons were hidden beneath a rack of clouds that had covered the skies all that day and into the night, so the darkness was as deep as any crypt of the Dark Brotherhood that Crixus had dared to venture. Groping in the darkness on his knees, he had half a mind to go forward and see what it was the four servants had left at the edge of the field. Immediately he froze as he heard a low growl, like some large beast, very near to him. A glimmer of red eyes appeared in the darkness before him. Aware of how vulnerable he was, unarmed, he dared not make any movements, either sudden or subtle. Five uneasy minutes passed as the eyes flickered, darkened, then flashed back towards him; in all of that time, Crixus remained on the ground, immobile.

At last, the eyes disappeared and never came back. The terror that had once frozen him to the spot now compelled him to run as fast as he could towards the Blackberry Hall. Onto his feet he scurried, running as fast as he could, not stopping until he saw the lights of the hall. He got back to the upper room and crept back in, unlocking the door with his lock-picks before sneaking inside and slouching against the door. Why was he being forced to endure this chaos? He was one of the good-guys, so why had he been possessed?

When morning came, he told the others about what had occurred that night. Petruvius and Lethia seemed particularly interested in the news of Tiraa Vilenis' appearance.

"So she was the one who rescued us from the Synod?" Lethia asked, then turned to Petruvius and grinned. "I told you she was a woman."

"And you trust her, sir?" Petruvius asked. "I thought we weren't going to pursue the Mages Guild anymore, not after Kvatch."

"Things have changed, Petruvius," Crixus replied. "But for now, we've got things to do. You all have the same orders as before, only this time, Petruvius, Lethia, focus solely on any word from the Merchants Guild. Larth, Boderic, I want you two to come with me. Viator, I need you to find us a way into the city."

"What do you expect to find there?" Viator asked.

"The reason why I was going there," Crixus stated. "For a start."

"But how could you possibly know?" asked Boderic. "If you were possessed, we should get you to a priest."

"The Divines won't help me," Crixus sneered. "Doing something will, though."

"And what will you do?" Boderic asked. "Walk up to the gates of a plagued city and then what?"

"I don't know," Crixus retorted. "But a lot more than you religious types have done. Don't hear any stories about your healers and priests going in there to save the people."

"If they are within the city walls," Boderic replied. "They do so out of charity and love, not for gold or glory."

"Fucking pricks," Crixus groaned. "Always finding some way to be right all the time."

"You mean like you?" Viator asked.

"Shut up!" Crixus shouted. "You know nothing, you big, fucking ape! Do you hear me? You're not supposed to talk, you're supposed to go to the city to find some way into it."

"Why?" Viator asked. "For your little bull-shite possession hunch?"

"No!" Crixus retorted. After taking a moment to calm down, he told them about what he had seen in the fields early that morning.

"What do you think, sir?" Petruvius asked. "Vampires?"

"It's likely," Crixus stated harshly. "Though if they're working with the Surilie Family, as I feel from what I heard, it's likely that we should be going soon. Skingrad might become a very unfriendly place very soon."

At this, Crixus angrily walked out of the room, slammed the door behind him as he left the room, and punched the wall in front of him. Shortly thereafter, the door opened and Petruvius walked out.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked.

Crixus groaned. "It's fucking Boderic and Viator. They're whining b*tches, just like Eirik. Plus, there's something else that makes this even less bearable."

"What's that, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I haven't had a good fuck since Kvatch," Crixus stated. "You wouldn't happen to find one for me while you're out and about, would you?"

"I'm many things, sir," Petruvius replied. "But I'm not a panderer, not even for you, sir."

"Now you are," Crixus returned. "So get to it."

* * *

The rest of the day Crixus spent with Boderic and Larth. The first place they went to were the fields between Blackberry Hall and Tamika Hall. Crixus prided himself on his tracking skills, that he could track a wild netch in the wastelands north of Mournhold even during night. So it was that he was confident in his ability to find the field, though he had been there at night. By the time they arrived there, they found a cart-trail leading towards the edge of the field, just outside the Imperial blockade, but there were no bodies.

"The Great Seer," Larth muttered. "He told us about these ones, the night-walkers, blasphemers. He said that they would catch us in the darkness and drink our blood if they found us outside of the ruins. It was one of the reasons we stayed in the ruins, he told us that they would not drink the blood of the nobility."

"They're called vampires, Larth," Crixus stated. "And your Great Seer was not truthful about them. They will drink animal blood, but only if they're very weak and starving. Nothing to do with the 'nobility' of the beasts of the field. Just choice."

Boderic, meanwhile, was kneeling down, circling himself with his right hand held in a votive gesture, muttering prayers to Arkay.

"Save your prayers, boy," Crixus muttered. "Your gods don't live here."

"Save your blasphemies, sir," Boderic retorted. "The Divines are all around us."

"Yes, yes, I've heard the stories," Crixus rolled his eyes. "They gave their essence to make our world, and because of it, they're impersonal, intangible, incapable of interfering in our affairs and, of course, impotent. Pretty fucking convenient excuse, if you ask me. The way I see it, there's a lot simpler explanation."

"What is that?" Larth asked.

"There are no gods or divines," Crixus replied. "They were just made to control the minds of my people when we were slaves to the Ayleids. And we've outgrown the gods."

"You're wrong," Boderic interjected. "You see, I myself have studied this very phenomenon myself. For you see, Crixus, I myself was once like you."

"Give me a fucking break," Crixus groaned. "I don't need a sermon right now."

"I think you do," Boderic stated. "Because you've been laboring under the lies of the Aldmer, lies that have been propagated for centuries."

"And what lies are these?" asked Crixus.

"That the Divines are impersonal," Boderic replied. "Remember what I told you about my family's involvement in the Knights of the Nine?" Crixus nodded. "Well, after we were all but slaughtered, I also was tempted to think that we were abandoned, that the Divines weren't real, that we had been living a lie that had led to our deaths."

"Is that so?" Crixus smirked. "The brave, bold and faithful bulwark of the faith of the Eight Divines shaken? You're telling me that you had an honest moment of doubt? Where your unbreakable faith was broken?"

"Yes!" Boderic answered through clenched teeth.

"What made you turn your eyes away from the truth?" Crixus chuckled. "I mean, what kind of ignorant fuck sees the truth and willfully turns away from it to live in a lie?"

"Not ignorance, Crixus, wisdom," Boderic replied. "The Divines visited me once again, and afterwards I saw that they were not only real, but active in our lives."

"Bull-shite," Crixus sneered.

"All that we have been taught about the Divines are lies," Boderic stated. "You, Crixus, you sound as though you've learned, or at least that you've read quite a few books on history and lore in your time. Have you read anything of our own history?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "As far as Alessia and the Cyrodilic Empire."

"Then you should know," Boderic replied. "That the Alessian doctrine was co-mingled with the worship of elvish gods. Elvish traditions, bred from an endless hatred of mankind, were brought into that doctrine, traditions that blamed mankind for severing mer-kind's connection with their Divine ancestors. That claimed that they could no longer speak to or communicate with their own ancestors, their own blood-kin, because of us! It was a lie, born of hatred towards mankind, that we have let into our own worship and perverted it."

Crixus threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, that's rich! That is truly rich! You-You're actually saying that everything that scholars and theologians have taught for thousands of years is false?"

"Elvish scholars and elvish theologians," Boderic stated. "How much of our history has been written by elves? How much of our culture has been influenced by elves? They own us already, if not in name."

Crixus rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I've never heard a worse load of bull-shite in my entire life! I don't even think Nords would be stupid enough to believe that. No, actually, they would! This is _exactly_ the kind of bull-shite that Nords would think up! I thought you were an Imperial, son! I thought you were better than _them_!"

"What's wrong, sir?" Larth asked. "You look red."

It was true, though. Crixus was starting to become very uncomfortable, listening to Boderic's words. He had no immediate response, certainly not any intelligent response, to what he said. His first reaction, of course, was to leave them. This he did, kicking the dirt as he went. Then, anger rising up in him, he walked back to Boderic, his face within an inch of Boderic's face, and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"_**Keep it in the chapel, self-righteous arse-hole! Don't shove your nonexistent gods in my fucking face!**_"

With that, he lifted his hand to strike Boderic across the face, but his hand wavered, then he turned around and left. A quick glance over his shoulder and he shouted "Larth, follow!" At least with this simpleton, he would not have to endure the kind of arguments which he hated. In truth, as Crixus was coming to realize, he hated shouting people down. Truly, it was enjoyable when he could outwit the Nords and turn them yam-red with anger, but when he was the one being provoked to anger with no rational response, he hated the whole ordeal. In truth, what he wanted most of all was nothing more than yes men: people who agreed with everything he said, gave him nothing but congratulations on his efforts, never criticized him in the slightest, never argued or challenged his authority, his ideas, his suggestions, his vices.

They went on for a while, walking away from the Tamika fields and farther south. Crixus wanted to get as far away from Boderic and the others as he could. Everything they said and did provoked and triggered him to anger. He hated them for it, but had not the heart to fully abandon them. He would need allies if he was to succeed in his bid to take the throne. But now he halted in the field, alongside a road that was, currently, busy with refugees fleeing the Nibenay counties.

He realized that, deep down inside, he had no true intention or desire of taking the Ruby Throne. As far as he had seen, the Empire was doing very well for itself. He looked away from the faces, drawn with despair, as they fled their homes; anything to ignore the truth. Were it not for this plague, the Empire would be strong. Yes, that was it. Ulfric was just another lying Nord, and everything he said about the Empire being weak and losing to the Dominion in the Great War were lies. The Empire, being thus strong, thus unassailable, thus infallible, had no need of reform.

Suddenly he heard words being spoken. Looking thither, he saw a woman in robes of black lined with gold, standing upon a stone, speaking to those who walked upon the streets.

"Never fear, good people!" she said. "Better days are upon you! The Dominion are our friends. We should not give ear to the lies of those who call them our enemies. They want only peace with us, and peace they have given us. There are some who say that the Great War was fought to break the spirit of the Empire by eradicating the false god Talos. Lies, all lies! Falsehoods told by bigots and monsters who believe in a world of humans only! The world does not belong to those who hold onto blasphemous traditions, long since recognized for their error by the brilliant, infallible minds of the Ecumenical Primature, the Emperor, the Elder Council and, greatest of these, the Thalmor. Our fair brothers and sisters on Alinor have declared that the worship of the false god Talos is heresy, for it robs the Eight of their right and natural worship which we all, as their citizens, owe them. They are not here to wage war against our pride and our culture, but to correct erring brothers and sisters in the faith!"

Against his will, into Crixus' mind came images of the priest of Talos Heimskr in Whiterun. She seemed to be speaking out in favor of the Thalmor. Once again he saw the piles of children's skulls, her face, the smug looks on Elenwen and Ondolemar's faces as he was forced to work for them, and the hundreds of bodies hanging from the walls of Solitude. Then again he saw General Claxitus and all those of the 9th Legion. Pushed to the breaking point, he was about to speak when one young man spoke up, speaking the words that he was thinking inside.

"Me uncle died in the Battle of the Red Ring," he said. "He fought them elves you're defendin', lady!"

"And a brave soul he must have been," the woman continued. "Let it not be said that those who serve the Red Legions of the Empire are wrong for doing their duty. Let it rather be said that what they fought for was a lie, a mistake; one that the Emperor has wisely recognized and rectified."

"Are you sayin' me uncle died for nothin'?" asked the young Colovian man.

"Unfortunately yes," said the woman.

"Hey!" Crixus shouted, unable to keep silent anymore. "You watch what you're saying, b*tch! I fought the Dominion during the War, I've seen what they did to us, the atrocities they reeked upon the innocents in the Imperial City after the Battle of the Red Ring."

"Speak not the lies of heretics and rebels in the ears of honest folk," the woman retorted, her green eyes flashing towards Crixus as he spoke. "The Thalmor are our allies, working with us, not against us, in mending the mistake in the great tapestry of our spirituality, one that binds all the cultures and races of Tamriel together as one great family."

"Look," Crixus interjected. "I couldn't give a fuck about Talos. He was a worthless man, and that doesn't make a worthy god. But I've seen what the Dominion have done, what they're still doing, and I won't stand for any bright-eyed b*tch singing their praises, not when there are people dying in the provinces, people being flayed and hanged from the walls of the cities! Children being burned alive to fuel their fires!"

"The Thalmor are not killers," the woman replied. "You've been listening to the lies of the North-men. They are the ones who fabricated these stories of our Altmer brethren abducting their children in the dead of the night for their heresies. Intolerant bigots, the lot of them! You are in danger of believing their lies, friend. Great danger."

"Don't call me friend, b*tch," Crixus retorted. "And don't you threaten me either!"

At this, the woman stepped down from her stone and, slowly, methodically, walked towards Crixus and leaned into his ear. "They won't stand for this behavior, you know."

"Like I give a fuck!" Crixus retorted, shoving her down and into the mud. Suddenly he heard a shout and saw someone rising up out of the vines behind him. Then from both ends of the refugee column there came more. To Crixus' consternation, he saw that they were all armed. He darted away, running south and west, weaving through the rows, sliding underneath the wooden undergrowth of the vines. He had to get away.

He ran across the field, not looking back to see if they were still following him. He knew they were. The field was not very wide and they were sure to have kept on his trail this far. If he could get to the trees, then perhaps he might have a better chance of losing them. Suddenly there was a blast and a vine next to him burst into flames as one of those behind him threw a fire-ball at him. Instantly he dove towards the ground, then his hopes rose as he saw a large, fur-clad hoof standing before him.

Suddenly there was a loud roar and the shadow of Drogon passed over him. He heard cries and footsteps, then a body fall to the ground. After a moment, Crixus rose up and saw two soldiers in the livery of the Skingrad city guards running back across the fields. Nearby stood Drogon, glaring down at Crixus.

"They hurt you?" the minotaur grumbled.

"No, they didn't," Crixus shook his head. "It's a good thing you were here."

"Hunting," said Drogon. "Saw you running. Saw fire-ball. Come help."

"Well, thank you," Crixus said, patting the beast on his large arm (he was not tall enough to reach the shoulders). "I will need to find a way to summon you if we're in danger."

"Voices too small," Drogon murmured. "No can hear from forest."

"I know," Crixus sighed. "Well, thank you once again. But if you will excuse me, I need to be alone."

* * *

The rest of the day, Crixus spent walking along the edge of the forest, going northward, towards the Blackberry Hall. Alone he was with the one person he respected the most. He was also alone with his thoughts, and his mind was awash with worries and doubts. There were actually people who were defending what the Dominion did, and he was actually thinking that the Empire was infallible? He didn't want to believe it, for it went against his own beliefs, but there was no escaping the truth. As much as he lauded the Empire in everything they did, here were the fruits of what he, a soldier of the Red Legions, had brought about.

He had fought and bled for the Empire, only to have those he fought to defend spit in his face and on the sacrifices of his friends. Ulfric Stormcloak could not have done something that would have filled Crixus with more anger and hatred than what that woman had said.

It was getting on towards evening, and he was making his way back towards the Blackberry Hall. There had been no sign of Lucan, though he had quite forgotten about him, and he was no nearer his goal of uncovering the nature of the mysterious plague. He had to a hold of things once again, or else he risked days on end of nothing more than fits of rage with his companions.

As he was thus walking through the fields, he began to notice someone coming towards him through the fields. Slowly they came at first, and hesitantly, as though they were not entirely sure of the one they were following. Crixus wished he had a weapon on him, but Drogon had dragged the body of the Skingrad town guard he had slain before Crixus could think to ask for a weapon. Instead he quickened his pace, hoping to put a few useful yards between him and the pursuer. In the distance, he heard a cry, but did not turn around to look after it. On and on he ran, hoping to get the better of this new pursuer, his mind racing with who it might be. A Synod agent? One from the city guard, after him for assaulting that woman, that prophetess, that supporter of the Dominion? He did not want to wait to find out.

Suddenly, he was tackled onto the ground, crashing into a vine and hitting the hard wooden undergrowth with his back. Angrily he turned around to face his captor, who had pushed him down. The one who rose to meet him was shorter than him by about a hand's length from finger-tip to base, of lighter frame and therefore was able to catch up to him. He wore robes similar to the Vigilants of Stendarr that Crixus had seen in Skyrim, though these were of lighter make, suited for the more temperate climes of Cyrodiil.

"What the fuck was that for?" Crixus demanded. "Wh..."

"I called out to you," the newcomer stated. His accent was Colovian, his voice of a higher timbre than Crixus', but vaguely familiar. "You didn't answer me."

"Maybe because I didn't want to be found?" Crixus asked.

"I wanted to find you," said the newcomer. "I wanted to speak to you."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Why?" asked the newcomer in bewilderment. "Don't you recognize me...brother?"

Crixus looked up at those words, taking in the man's face. He was certainly paler than Crixus, and his chin was not flecked with stubble, but there were similarities. The chin was dimpled and narrow, the eyes were both blue and he had dark hair. Short and wavy, reminding Crixus of Sethre the Great Seer, but it was still the same short, dark and wavy hair that he remembered his father having.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"It's me, Servius!" the newcomer spoke, offering his hand to help him up. "Venerius Crixus, your brother."

Almost as much as when he encountered those eyes in the darkness, Crixus froze. It was the one thing that had been on his mind for thirty-one years, since he left home. When he never found him, he feared that he was dead. Upon coming to Skyrim and meeting the Silver Hand, he heard that Venerius was alive. Now it seemed as though they were united once again.

Crixus did not take the hand offered to him as he rose up. Instead he kept his eyes on the man before him, examining him thoroughly. A fist came out of nowhere and struck him across the face. He crumbled down to the earth, his nose bleeding.

"Ow!" he shouted. "Gods, Servius, what was that for?"

"You fucking abandoned us!" shouted the older Crixus. "Thirty-one years ago! You ran out on father...on me! I haven't seen you for thirty-one years, and now you just come back and act like nothing's happened?"

"I thought you'd be happy to see me," said Venerius, wiping the blood off his nose with his sleeve.

"Gods!" swore Servius Crixus as he kicked at the dirt. "I want to punch you, kick you, fucking tear you apart..." He looked down at the man; he must be in his early forties, though he wore the years well. Instead of attacking him, Servius held his hand down and helped Venerius up onto his feet.

"Fuck," Servius explicated. "I'm torn between anger and...and relief! Where have you been all these years?"

"I'd love to tell you about it," Venerius answered. "But I am not a free man. I was sent out to hunt down vampires in these parts by Dorian Surilie, and I am still about my task. Tomorrow night, however, I sit at banquet with him and his brother Georg in Blue-Cluster Hall to give my report. You're welcome to join me. You look like you've seen better days yourself." Crixus was thin and gaunt from his many sleepless nights, and he was very dirty from having not washed in a long while.

"Come, brother," Venerius said, smiling through his bloodied nose. "A rich feast is just what you need to lift your spirits and take the edge off life. There we can talk at length about this and that, and all that has transpired between us since we departed."

"Since _you_ departed, you mean," Servius clarified.

"Where are you staying?" Venerius asked.

"Blackberry Hall."

"Good!" exclaimed Venerius. "You should have no trouble finding the Blue-Cluster Hall. It's half an hour through the fields south of Blackberry Hall. I hope to see you there, Servius."

Crixus nodded as his brother left. It was so strange to him, finally to have thrown in his lap the one he had been searching for most of his adult life. Yet, for some reason, he hated hearing his own brother call him by his given name. Strange because he had often said that only family should use his given name. So why, then, did he feel so uncomfortable hearing him say it?

* * *

**(AN: I've built it up since _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, and now i've decided to bring it up to front, bringing up two new characters at the same time, as well as the Placators and a whole new look at the Nine Divines [one that isn't colored by an obvious bias towards _Morrowind_ and the Tribunal]. So much to do!)**

**(But there is something i would like to talk about. Having surfed around on some ES forums, i've learned two things: one that, just as i surmised, EVERYONE supports the Empire and second, they've also bought into the Placator's lies that the Dominion just have a philosophical disagreement with the Empire, thinking that Talos worship dishonors the other Eight, that he was only a good man and their obvious attempts at undermining the Empire are not to destroy the Empire. I would complain, but, considering the state of the world as it is right now, it's not surprising that people would choose religious persecution and the lies of Tamriel's nazis over the unfortunate and inconvenient truth.)**


	24. The Thief

**(AN: A lot more characters to be introduced in this chapter, some sub-plots, other kinds of plots, and, of course, hopefully character development. So much to do, and i've recently had a birthday [25 and still writing fan-fics, :p])  
**

* * *

**The Thief**

Crixus kept to himself when he came back to Blackberry Hall and found the table where the others were eating. They filled him in on what they had found while sounding out the vintners around the city and the refugee groups. As far as the Thieves Guild were concerned, they had little presence outside of the city, but no one could tell if they had any presence within. They did hear about the lord mayor of the Skingrad chapter of the Merchants Guild, none other than Linghorn, who was 'working' with the Surilie Family, though anything else was scarce. There also was no Synod presence in Skingrad, as the College of Whispers had an office in the 'safe' northern half of the city.

"They call it 'safe'," Petruvius explained. "Because the plague hasn't struck there, but there's plenty of other bad things there. Looters, criminals, riots, vagabonds and the odd wild daedra."

"Did you just say wild daedra?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded. "They say that the mages of the College of Whispers summon daedra, but sometimes they aren't able to defeat them or control them in time before they cause mischief or run away."

What Crixus found especially disheartening was that the Fighters Guild had abandoned their guild hall in the northern half of the city, though it was deemed 'safe.' There was, also, more bad news to report. Petruvius said that, since Lethia's horse had been slain by the animists, he had a mind to purchase a horse with some of his money. However, there were no horses to be bought for any amount of money in the wineries around the city. As if that were not enough, the Grateful Pass stables, the only stables in the city, had long since been abandoned. The Legions had taken the horses for their own uses and the stables had been left to ruin and decay in the empty no man's land between the blockade and the city walls.

"Did you happen to see anyone in your travels?" Crixus asked. "Anybody on the roads, in the wineries, preaching as if they were priests, singing the praises of the Dominion."

"Oh, you mean the Placators," Viator muttered.

"You know them?" Petruvius asked.

"I think Rayya once said something about them," Crixus stated. "But I can't remember it."

"They're the chief arse-kissers and cock-suckers of the Thalmor," Viator explained. "They tell everyone they meet that the Dominion are our friends, that everything done by them are good and worthy. They were the ones who published _The Talos Mistake_, and they have members in the Elder Council and among the counties in Cyrodiil. Publius Varro is one such bastard, and he invited many of his friends to dine with Brachus Romulus in Kvatch. I remember them quite well; quite agreeable at first, but clever in their words and less agreeable later on."

"When were they formed?" Crixus asked. "I don't remember them."

"After the War ended," Viator stated. "The Thalmor Ambassador asked the Emperor's permission - the old Emperor, that is - for the formation of a group that would promote friendship between our two nations. If you ask me, it's a load of bull-shite. Even if Brachus wasn't scum, he's a fucking idiot for giving his ear to them."

"Still," Crixus suggested. "They couldn't have been that successful, right? I mean, the Civil War proves that they weren't very successful, and I found a few copies of _The Talos Mistake_ in Skyrim. Hell, the Battle-Born Clan had it in their house when I ate with them."

"If their writings could reach a remote-arse place like Skyrim," Viator nodded. "That's proof of their success, not their failure. And if there are some important Nord clans that have their material, it shows just how great their success has been. But here in Cyrodiil, they have uncontested control of every facet of news. There are Placators in every county, preaching in the streets or whispering in the courts. They lobbied successfully to have the Emperor outlaw the Black Horse Courier; the Imperial Herald now spreads news in the Capital, news that is examined and approved by the Placators before being sent forth. Which is surprising, because the Black Horse Courier sang the praises of the Emperor and the Elder Council as it was."

"I don't believe this," Crixus groaned.

"Those four words slip far too easily from your mouth, sir," Boderic replied.

Crixus mimicked the words, then added his usual: "Shut the fuck up, you cunt."

"If you don't respect us, or listen to what we have to say," Boderic retorted. "Why did you bother taking us with you?"

"I didn't take you with me," Crixus stated. "You chose to tag along, remember? Help the poor people of Skingrad. Well, now you're here, why haven't you been doing that?"

"I have," Boderic retorted. "In between my orders from you. But there is another reason I am here, one that I believe will require the help of all of you." He then cast his eyes up at Viator. "Even you."

"And what is that?" Crixus asked.

"About two days journey south-east of here," Boderic began. "On the border of Elsweyr, there's an old ruin. That ruin used to be the Priory of the Nine, the headquarters of the Order that my parents and I belonged to: the Knights of the Nine. I need your help."

"My help?" Crixus asked.

"Well, all of your help," Boderic replied. "We will need muscle, magic and faith to get us through the ruin. Here we have all of those: I believe we will succeed."

"Succeed in what?" asked Crixus again.

"The recovery of very sacred items," said Boderic. "The Relics of the Crusader: a suit of armor dedicated to all the gods. Kynareth's boots, Stendarr's gauntlets, Dibella's helm, Zenithar's mace, Julianos' shield, Arkay's sword, Akatosh's boots, Mara's belt and the Cuirass of Talos. They were held sacred by the Knights of the Nine and stowed away in the Priory when the Empire and the Dominion outlawed the Knights of the Nine. The Priory was destroyed, but the relics were never found."

"So what, then?" Crixus chuckled. "We go after some 'sacred' relics that may or may not be there?"

"Oh, they're there, trust me," Boderic replied.

"I don't," said Crixus. "So why should we listen to you about this?"

"I would say for the thrill of opening a priory," Boderic stated. "Or the ruins thereof, that have been untouched for twenty years. But adventure doesn't seem to be something you enjoy, is it?"

"Call me when this priory is over a hundred years old, then we'll talk," Crixus stated with a smug grin.

"Wait a minute, sir," Petruvius spoke up. "I actually want to see this."

"I as well," Lethia added. "It would be well to step into a chantry dedicated to the gods your people stole from us."

"Larth," Boderic spoke, then noticed that the bald man was missing. "Where has he gone?"

"What?" Crixus exclaimed. "I thought he was right behind me!"

"What happened to him?" asked Boderic.

"We must have been separated after those guards chased us," Crixus stated. "Well, then, we should start looking for him."

"What?" Viator asked. "That little shite has bolted and ran, just as I knew he would. Probably off looking for his beast-fucking friends right now, telling them all he knows about us."

"Let's not jump to conclusions, now," Boderic interjected. "Remember, he left them of his own free will."

"That don't prove shite," Viator retorted.

"Alright, alright," Crixus spoke up. "We'll look for him in the morning. Right now I need some sleep. There's only so much a man like me can take of you people b*tching before he goes insane."

With a frustrated groan, he drained the last of his Surilie 196 and left the common room, heading back for the bedroom upstairs. To his annoyance, the Blackberry Hall did not serve beer. At this point, he would have been grateful for a cup of Nord mead. Spoiled on rich matze, bitter flin and what he considered the "fine" drinking cuisine of Mournhold, and of course due to his usual abhorrence of all things Nordic, Crixus held Nord mead to be nothing better than piss and swill. But he would rather drink it than nothing at all, and the liquor content of the Surilie wine was too low for his tastes. That, on top of his inflamed lusts, heated even more by the lack of indulgence, made Crixus even more ornery than usual.

* * *

At what time he fell asleep, Crixus could not guess. But when morning dawned, he picked himself up off the floor and, hobbling down the stairs like an old man, went to the common room where the others were waiting for him.

"What the fuck?" he groaned. "Have you been here all night long?"

"No, sir," Petruvius chuckled. "You were asleep and we woke before you and came down here."

"You should have woken me," Crixus grumbled, taking his seat next to Viator Matius.

He ordered food for himself, but when the soup and bread were brought before him and he attempted to dip the bread in the soup, he found that his hands trembled so violently that he could not get very far. Angrily, he knocked the wooden bowl off the table, scalding his arm on the hot stew in the process. He sputtered and swore, but had not the energy to do much else.

"Are you alright, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Why don't you go choke on a giant Orc cock?" Crixus retorted.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Petruvius returned, lowering his head. "I didn't mean to anger you."

"Oh, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to," Crixus mimicked. "Yes, you fucking did! Now why don't you lot make yourself useful and go find Larth and leave me the fuck alone?"

One by one, the others left Crixus alone, as he ordered Surilie 196 and drank it by the bottle. He drank until he saw no more the face of Sedris Ulver, of his goddess, of the monster that stole her away from him, the piles of children skulls, her, the 9th Legion lying bleeding in the snows of Hammerfell, the Night Mother, the Falmer, Astrid's burned body or the Emperor. At last, he rose up, took two steps, then collapsed.

When next he came to, he found himself lying in what appeared to be a wagon, jostling about on a bumpy road. The skies above were dark and cloudy, bearing the portents of rain. He rose his head up, trying to see what had happened.

"This one's still awake!" he heard a familiar voice shout.

"Then knock him out, numb-skulled smooth-skin!" the Argonian hissed.

There was a twang of a bow-string being released and someone fell back with a cry.

"Bandits!" the Colovian, who was their leader, shouted. "To arms!"

A loud roar was heard, then Crixus heard a weapon fall to the ground and the Argonian cry, "I'm getting out of here!" Crixus rose up from the cart, only to see a group of bandits attacking the cart. The Colovian was down, his head bashed in by a mace while the other Colovian was held in a head-lock by someone so large, Crixus would have taken him for a Nord were it not for his dark skin.

"Crusher!" he heard a drawling, nasal voice give an order. "Have fun."

Suddenly the whole cart jostled and a voice screamed in pain. Raising his head up, Crixus saw the large man bashing the Colovian's face against the handle-bar of the cart. No sooner had he raised his head when he saw two bows aimed at him.

"So," the drawling voice stated. "One slips through, I see."

Crixus turned and saw that the speaker with the drawling voice was a young Colovian man roughly his own height, with short, curly hair, fair skin and was clad in a leather jerkin with a bow over his shoulder and an iron mace in his hand. It was the eyes that struck him, though: blue, eternally wide open and burning with ravenous hunger. Nay, not hunger, for that gave the impression of, at one point, being sated. The look in this man's eyes was of gluttony. For a long while he held Crixus' gaze as the large man continued to bash the Colovian servant's face into the cart over and over. At length, he halted and Crixus saw that nothing remained of the man's face but a bloody, caved in mess.

"Where am I?" Crixus asked, slightly nervous at waking up to this site. "How did I get here?"

"What, no thank you for saving your ungrateful arse?" the young man retorted. "That's rude, you know, and I can't abide rudeness."

"And you are?" Crixus asked.

"Take them with us," the young man said to his comrades, ignoring Crixus' question. "Crusher, make sure this one's bound tight."

The large one approached Crixus and, before he could protest, began tieing heaving cords around his wrists and ankles until he was bound. Crixus shouted and protested, but the large man made no answer. Once he was secured, four of the young man's companions took the cart in hand and went on their way. All the while, Crixus, whose eyes were not blinded, looked all around him. He could see the dark, cloud-covered image of Skingrad in the distance, and grape-vines as far as the eye could see on either side near at hand. But there was no sign of Blackberry Hall. As far as he could tell, the sun was directly overhead, though covered with clouds.

An hour passed and suddenly he heard orders being barked out. Before he could speak, the large man's fist met his face and he knew no more. The next thing he knew, he was in total darkness, a burlap sack on his head and a hard, stone wall by his side, against which he bumped again and again. He then felt himself being dragged like a sack of potatoes, then thrown unceremoniously onto the ground. Within moments, the sack was removed and he saw the young man gazing at him, a smile on his face and the look of gluttony in his eyes.

Again he said nothing, only stared at Crixus a good long while, then gently slapped his face before standing up and assuming an authoritative stance. Crixus looked around and saw they were in a darkened alley, with tall buildings and walkways looming around and above. On every roof-top and walkway were men with bows and arrows, looking down at him. Around he looked and saw others tied up around him. Behind the young man, Crixus saw, the giant man was standing, arms hanging down at his side like some beast ready to attack at a moment's notice.

"Welcome to Skingrad," the young man greeted. "I am your host, Benjin Surilie. You're no doubt wondering...'why am I here?' Well, I have an answer to that question: you're here because no one wants you. Nobody gives two shites about you, that's why you're here. You came to my family's wineries, hoping to find some kind of respite, some kind of relief, maybe even a nice place to get out of the rain and drink our wine?" He chuckled, his men chuckled, then he held up his hand and all was silent.

"But no one cares about us," he stated. "No one cares about the people trapped in the city."

"You're a wealthy man, son," an older man with a golden necklace spoke up. "You don't belong here."

At this, Benjin sauntered over to the old man, removed his bow and struck him in the face with it.

"You don't get to talk," he continued. "Not you, Mr. Merchant. Your money can't save you here, but it will go to those who need it most. Me and my friends here." He gestured to those behind him.

"Shame on you!" an older woman scolded. "To be born into such a wealthy, powerful family, only to resort to banditry?"

"Wrong!" Benjin cried out, a smile on his face as he kicked her in the jaw with his boots. "Shame on you, little worshiper of the Eight. You think the gods are going to save you?" He knelt down before her, placing one hand upon his chest. "The Eight don't live here, but I do. So you better start praying to me if you want to survive."

"Monster!" a middling woman who was still rather fair shouted.

"I'm hardly the monster here, lady," Benjin stated. At this he walked over to the woman, picked her up by the throat, bringing her up to her feet, then pushed her away from the crowd. With hands and legs still bound, she fell down among the bandits, who immediately went to work ripping apart her clothes to get to her.

"We're the victims here," he continued. "All of us, even you." He pointed to those who remained: Crixus, the old man and woman, two others and a Khajiit. "You see, I'm the only one around here who bothers to tell you all the truth. My uncle and my father have the run of this town, opening their doors to the destitute, the poor, the widows, the refugees, all the while picking off those they deem 'unworthy' and sending them to the edge of their fields in the middle of the night, where they're never seen again."

"It's a lie!" one of the two men shouted. "The Surilie Family would never do this! The Count would never allow this! The-The Legion...The Emperor..."

"They don't care about you!" quoth Benjin in a disturbingly merry, sing-song voice. "You're inside the city, not out! They've got the city quarantined, they don't want us getting out!" At this he kicked the man in the groin, then struck him in the face with the bow.

"But that's just the way things are," he continued. "And we're here to make it all better."

"Better?" the old man scoffed. "Ha! If this is better, the White-Gold Concordant was a mistake!"

Benjin walked over to the old man and knelt down beside him, placing his hand on the old man's shoulder. At first he tried to push away, but Benjin hushed him down, taking on an almost comforting air. His next words spoken were soft, but Crixus' keen ears heard everything that was said.

"Do you see that big fellow over there?" Benjin began, gesturing towards the giant one. "They call him 'Crusher', though I don't suppose you need much explanation as to why. What his right name is, no one's ever heard. Some say he hasn't got one. But that's rubbish, eh? Everyone has a right name. What it is, who knows? He never talks, and as far as I've heard about him, the only ones who knew if he had a right name or not were his mum and dad, who he killed as a child. Now, I'm not done talking yet, so unless you don't want to find out why they call him 'Crusher', I suggest you shut your mouth, alright?" He gave the old man an encouraging back-slap, then dramatically rose to his feet.

"So, where are we now?" he exclaimed. "My family, the Count and the Emperor don't give a damn about this city. But I do. I care that some people are forced to live inside a plagued city while others sip my family's wine in safety beyond the city's walls. I care that some are being carried off into the night and disappear without a trace." He pointed over to where five of his men were on top of the woman he had thrown to them.

"I care about her, even," he stated. "And all of you. Stop!" He cried to his men, holding up his hand. A smile still on his face, he removed his mace from his belt, walked over to the group of men around the woman, and gave them the mace. "Be gentle", he said with a sadistic grin and a tone that implied anything but gentleness. He turned back to his audience, most of whom averted their eyes or lowered their heads as the poor woman's nethers were being violated by a sharp, nail-studded mace.

"Have you no shame?" the old woman, who was on the verge of tears, begged. "Have you no honor? Have you no decency?"

"Now, you see?" Benjin said to the old man. "I told you what would happen if you talked!" He picked up the old woman by the hair and dragged her over to Crusher, throwing her down at his feet. In one swift motion, the large man stomped on the woman's head, sending blood splattering all over the ground.

"Kill me, punish me!" the old man begged, now weeping openly. "Why did you do that to her? She didn't do anything to you!"

"It's not a question of doing anything," Benjin explained. "It's all in good fun." At this he dropped his trousers and began pissing in the old man's face, laughing as the stream hit him in the eyes. Once he was satisfied, he put his pants back on and turned to the only three who remained silent.

"And what about you three, hmm?" he asked. "Think you're brave by enduring all of this fun in silence? Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" He waved his hand and Crusher walked towards him. From his belt, Benjin removed a small knife and began removing the Khajiit's bonds.

"Thank you," said the Khajiit. "Thank you, kind sir. Ra'Jheep thanks you from the bottom of his heart."

"You're very welcome," Benjin replied. "I do enjoy someone with a sense of manners."

"You will let this one go?" Ra'Jheep asked.

"Oh yes," Benjin nodded. "I will let you go. But first, I have to ask you something."

"What is that?" Ra'Jheep queried.

"I've heard," Benjin said. "That cats always land on their feet. Is this true?"

Before the Khajiit could answer, Crusher picked him up and heaved him off of what appeared to be a breech in the high wall around the city. The poor Khajiit's cries echoed in their ears until a distant thud ended them.

"I guess we'll never know," Benjin uttered. At the second Colovian he halted and looked up at Crusher.

"I've always wanted to see," he said, turning to the man. "If one can make a man's head burst, like a grape when it's stepped on. Crusher, grape." He then mimed crushing with his hands and, amidst the man's pleas for mercy, the large Crusher knelt down and shoved his thumbs into the man's eyes. He ended his life with screams of agony until Crusher's massive hands caved in his face.

"Now there's only you," Benjin said, stepping up to Crixus. "You, I hate."

"You don't even know me," Crixus retorted.

"I don't have to know you," Benjin replied. "I don't even want to know you. I hate you."

"What have I even done to make you hate me?" Crixus asked.

"Hmm," Benjin paused pensively. "Nothing I can think of. You just have one of those faces that I just hate. Such a proud, haughty look on your face. Well, you won't have much to be proud of for long, will y-agh!"

An arrow came whistling down and struck off the pinky on Benjin's right hand. All eyes turned towards the roof, including Crixus' eyes. Up there, one of the watchmen upon the roofs was now running as arrows came whistling towards the running figure, skidding off stones and tiles, falling helplessly down among them or striking some of the bandits. Benjin, with hand bleeding and arrows flying all around him, ran away with his left arm covering his head. Crusher took an arrow to his arm, which he pulled out and roared up at the roofs. As if in answer, a body came falling down from the roofs. Then another and another, and two more came as the rogue archer was cutting down the bandit watchmen on the roof.

Suddenly a dark shadow leaped into the streets and charged at two of Benjin's men, taking them down with one blow. The young man was now cowering beneath his giant, ordering him to kill whatever it was that was attacking. The shadow then passed by Crixus and, in one swift blow, hacked off the ropes on his legs. Before he could get a good glimpse, it was running again, taking out another thug. Again it passed by Crixus, this time kneeling behind his back as the shadow cut through his bonds with one hand and reached for his purse with another.

"Run," the shadow spoke, in a voice that seemed to be neither male nor female, or of any discernible race or provincial origin that Crixus knew. "The way is clear."

The figure darted up, leaped over Crixus and took off in a run.

"Hey, wait!" Crixus shouted, realizing that, aside from being rescued, he had also been robbed. The figure halted for a moment, turning around. Crixus saw only a figure clad all in black, with a black cloak and hood. There was no face beneath the hood, only a gray cowl and a black scarf hiding the entire face. No sooner had he seen this then the figure turned about and took off running.

Crixus did not need to be told twice, especially once the bandits turned on him. With the use of his feet and his limbs, he took off towards where Crusher had thrown the Khajiit off the wall. Dropping to one knee, he gripped the edge of the wall and looked down. The walls were smooth and aligned, with no hand-holds that he could see. But his right hand still bore the knife that his rescuer had given him and, after a little testing, found that it cut into the mortar between the stones. So it was, brick by brick, stone by stone, he made his way down the city wall. Once he reached the bottom, he saw the body of the Khajiit, then took off through the no man's land as he heard calls of "Shoot him! Kill him!" from above.

But no help would he find from the Legion, it seemed. For as soon as he was coming into view, he heard cries from there as well.

"Halt there!" they said. "Come one step closer and we shoot!"

"No!" Crixus panted. "I'm with the Legion! I'm a veteran of the 9th Legion, don't shoot! I'm friendly, hold your fire!"

"Go back into the city," he heard the voice order. "Or we will kill you!"

"I'm on your side!" Crixus retorted.

"Fire!" he heard the Legion commander cry out. "Kill it!"

_Shite_, Crixus muttered under his breath. _I seem to be in a fix. If only...Nocturnal, I don't know if this only works at night, but I really need your help right..._

The burst of ravens told him that his prayer was answered. He heard the whistling of arrows above him and did not wait another minute. Forward he ran, towards the lines of the Legion. They saw him not as he leaped over the picket line and skirted through their camp, leaping aside to evade soldiers on their ways to and from the camp. It seemed so strange to him that, such a loyal, devoted man as he, would have to sneak through the camps of the Red Legions of the Empire as if he were a common criminal.

_Father would be turning in his grave,_ Crixus thought. _If he knew I was doing this._

Thinking of his father brought back the meeting he had yesterday. He had mostly dismissed that this was not truly his brother. Yet now, thinking of his father, he wondered what he would think if he knew this. Would he side with him? Would he tell him to take the risk and see it out? He just remembered that their little rendezvous had been planned for this evening. Again he put forth all of his effort, hoping to reach Blackberry Hall before sundown.

* * *

**(AN: Oh, this chapter was going to be _so_ much longer. But, well, things being as they are, i decided to shorten it. Don't worry, next chapter we'll catch up with the others, meet Venerius in depth for the first time, and find out what happened to poor Larth. Also, who rescued Crixus? Was it a vampire? Was it someone else...was it something else?)  
**

**(Benjin and Crusher were inspired by two _Game of Thrones_ characters: obviously Crusher is the Mountain, and Benjin is that wicked little bastard Ramsay. As far as why Crixus is being especially dickish lately, it just sort of happened earlier, as him trying to "one-up" Viator. You see, with Viator and the others, Crixus is forced to either grow up or give in to his frustration and rage. But then i decided to go one more step and add something else that is getting to Crixus: alcoholism. Now, before you throw "oh, but the Nords drink" at me, let me just state that Eirik has only gotten smashed a few times. Crixus gets that drunk all the time, because he wants to forget all that he's done over the years. And, as we've stated before, it's been a while since he's had sex.)**

**(I've also weaved in my own history about the Knights of the Nine and what happened to them after the Great War ended and all. This was postulated back in the first story, and will now be brought to fruition. We get to have another future dungeon crawl mission, though that will be some time hence.)**


	25. A Feast for the Vain

**(AN: So i just had a new thought about one character from _Skyrim_ who is making a cameo in this chapter. Mjoll introduces the Black-Briar family as all of them being Maven's children, and that is the canon that i follow. However, further dialogue states that Hemming is the son and Ingun and Sibbi are his children [which the Unofficial _Skyrim_ patch corrected in favor of that]. Originally i just had it that Hemming was a complete dick who treated his siblings as though he was their father, but, of course, _Game of Thrones_ gets my mind in the gutter [because morality is lower than the grave on that show] and it makes me wonder...what if Hemming and Maven are in a bit of a Lannister-style relationship and Ingun and Sibbi are both Maven's children and grandchildren? What do you think?)**

* * *

**A Feast for the Vain  
**

Neramo was not at the Ambassador's office. He had received an invitation from one of their clients and was sent afield. His absence was indeed noted, for Lady Arannelya had to do most of everything on her own. Most humans would have found the challenge a tedious one, but for the Altmer highborn woman, it was a worthy challenge. She had rarely had the time to do things herself since the end of the First War with the Empire.

Lately, her greatest interest was Servius Crixus. Ondolemar's reports on what had occurred in Anvil were coming through, and little by little Lady Arannelya was starting to piece together an image of her arch-enemy. Born and raised in Anvil, 30th of Frostfall, 4E 156, father Valerius Crixus, mother Claudia nee Maro, brother Venerius. Father's family were farmers in the Highlands before moving to Anvil, mother's family had a long history of service to the Empire, stretching as far back as the Septims, with a Maro positioned in Gnisis during Morrowind's time as an Imperial province. Mother died two years after giving birth to him, raised by a stepmother named Sedris Ulver. There were no records on her whereabouts, or whether she had a family or not. Later on she found a record of his enlisting in the Imperial Legion during the War. Officially, he disappeared when the 9th Legion was destroyed towards the end of the War.

As she was one of the few people who knew the true fate of the infamous Ninth Legion, she knew that this was a lie.

The rest she pieced together from the reports that were collected from the Thalmor offices in Skyrim. Ondolemar's last message said that Servius Crixus was last seen going east with two others in his company: an elf and a man who was his servant. That was near the beginning of the month: he could be already at the gates of the Outer City by now. As it was, another report came in from her operative in Kvatch. Servius Crixus had appeared again, this time severely weakening the power of the Count of Kvatch by removing his chancellor.

After reading the reports over again, she placed them down on the table and scribbled in her journal. The words were written in an ancient code, known only to her and written backwards, so that no cryptographer could decipher it.

"I'm getting closer, Servius Crixus," she muttered, looking down at her paper.

* * *

It took the rest of the day to find Blackberry Hall, but by the time Crixus finally reached there, he found a messenger waiting for him. In his hands was a letter of invitation from Venerius, to join him at the Blue-Cluster Hall for Georg Surilie's feast. Crixus had no time to get himself decent, for the letter had been waiting for him since midday and it was now an hour from the feast. Crixus wiped the grime off his face and hands as best he could, then made his way with the messenger to the Blue-Cluster Hall.

It was the second time since his arrival in Cyrodiil that he was brought before a lordly feast. The great feasting hall of Blue-Cluster Hall was not as grand as Castle Anvil, but there were more people hereabouts than in that feast. The chairs were lowly and not high-backed; short, made of wood, and some piled with cushions. On the walls, the banners of the Surilie Family and of Skingrad were displayed: white with golden harp astride black and moons of red and silver. The table was arrayed in similar fashion, with the host at the head of the table in the crook of the 'C' that it formed.

Georg and Dorian Surilie seemed noble in their own way, almost like Colovian gentlemen, in Crixus' eyes. Georg, the eldest, was taller than his brother and his dark hair was turning gray with age. He bore a pleasant face, and the corners of his eyes were creased with the lines of many years laughter. Dorian was younger, and his hair was darker, and he bore a neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee, but while his brother was tall, he was average height for a Breton. His face also was harder, sterner, and while his brother had warm, welcoming brown eyes, Dorian's eyes were narrow and blue: too much of Benjin saw Crixus in those blue eyes. Yet for all their contrasting features, they both bore themselves as lords.

While Crixus stood thus in the doorway, waiting to be announced by the steward, Venerius rose up from his seat and walked towards the door.

"Brother, there you are!" he greeted warmly. "I was afraid you weren't coming. Where have you been?"

"I ran into trouble," Crixus replied. "But now I am here. Where shall I sit?"

"Please, follow me," Venerius offered, leading Crixus to a place set to the right of the Surilie Family table. Between them were set two seats and a stool: the seats must have been reserved for nobility or someone important, for there were cushions upon them but not upon the stool. Furthermore, Crixus also noted that, between Georg and Dorian there was a single seat that seemed to be important. It was ornately carved, the cushions upon it were very fine and the banner of Skingrad hung behind it.

"Whose seat is that?" Crixus asked, gesturing towards the seat.

"That's the Count's seat," Venerius explained. "By rights, a seat is always prepared at the table for the Count of Skingrad at such events, but he never comes out to feast. Some say the entire Hassildor family lives up in the castle, cut off from the rest of the world by reason of the plague."

"What do you think?" Crixus asked.

"I don't think anyone could have survived that long without outside contact," Venerius replied. "Especially now that the plague has struck. They don't dare open their gates or else risk the plague spreading to their keep. If anyone's still at the castle, though, that is the biggest mystery hereabouts."

While they were thus seated, Venerius pointed out those who were also seated. The middle table, the crook of the 'C', was reserved as a custom for the wealthiest and most influential guests, with the right and left being for the others. On the right side, where they sat, was the empty seat, and three others. One was occupied by a young man with almost Colovian features: dark skin, a neatly trimmed mustache that twirled at the ends, and a thin goatee. He wore a Colovian fur hat, whose peak had lost its starch and was drooping.

"That is Hemming Black-Briar," Venerius stated. "Representative of the Black-Briar family..."

"Of Skyrim," Crixus interjected.

"Of Cheydinhal," Venerius corrected. "Recently, they were exiled from Skyrim. Now they live in Cheydinhal and are quite a threat to the Surilie's wine operations."

"Is that so?" Crixus scoffed.

"Even here in Cyrodiil," Venerius added. "The rumors of the influence of his mother, Maven Black-Briar, are well-known."

"Is that why he's here?" Crixus asked.

"I believe so," Venerius nodded. "The Surilie Family are nothing if not wise, and they do not take sides in any of the political strife going on here in Cyrodiil."

The next two seated on their side were Drusilla Caro, youngest sister of Sybilla Caro, the Countess of Leyawiin, and Procurus Florius, Sixth Canon of the College of Whispers. As Venerius said, there were eight canons who oversaw the College of Whispers, overseen by the mysterious Arch-Canon, who was rarely ever seen in public. The canons served as the representatives of the interests of the College of Whispers and the Arch-Canon before the counts and the Elder Council.

Drusilla, on the other hand, was short, weighty and had red hair that was tied back and pleated. She wore a green dress and a broad necklace of gold, with tiny horses of silver upon it. Though she was rather short, Crixus noted that she did possess an ample bosom which kept his eyes frequenting back to her neckline. When Venerius spoke again, Crixus, who was quick-earned, turned his attention to the other side of the room, whither Venerius was directing his attention.

"That one over there," Venerius stated, pointing to a thin, bony wisp of a man whom Crixus recognized. "He is a character one is often to see at such parties. He was introduced to me as Pelagius, though I have heard he has other names, some not so friendly. Next to him is Marius Imbrex, chancellor of Bruma." This man seemed very much like Pelagius-Lucan in physical appearance and demeanor, though he seemed to have been much better off. Whereas Pelagius wore rough clothes of simple hues, Marius' garments were of deep blue, damasked with silver buttons and trimmed with silver. He wore a gold chain about his neck and a fur cloak which bore the emblem of Bruma: a black phoenix upon a gold field. Also, whereas Pelagius-Lucan was thin and ill-favored, Marius was fat, bald and bore a broad grin on his face as he eyed the kitchen doors greedily.

"Lastly," said Venerius, gesturing to the one next to Marius. "Cassius Urtius, the bastard of Anvil." Crixus recognized the face immediately: older gentleman with receding gray hair, clad in gray with a large leather cloak resting in the hands of a servant that stood behind him.

"I've seen him before," Crixus stated. "He thinks he should be Count of Anvil."

"I've heard that lately," Venerius replied. "He narrowly escaped capture by the Countess of Anvil."

Crixus swallowed inside, wondering just how much of his exploits were being spread in rumors around the taverns in Cyrodiil. While he was thus engrossed, a silver bell was rung and Georg Surilie rose from his seat.

"Friends, Colovians, citizens of the Empire," he greeted. "Welcome to my humble establishment. The feast will soon begin, but for the present, I will have the servants pour you all some of our finest 190 vintage."

"Hear hear!" Marius exclaimed, raising his fist in triumph at the news.

Suddenly all eyes turned towards the doors of the hall. There stood an Altmer clad in the black and gold robes of the Thalmor. He had very typical Altmeri features: high forehead, pronounced cheekbones, thin, pointed chin, slanted eyes and what appeared to be a scowl permanently etched onto his face.

"My lord Neramo!" Georg exclaimed. At this, his brother Dorian rose from his seat.

"I see you've decided to have the feast without me," Neramo commented. "Was your invitation not specific? Perhaps this is some attempt to present the Thalmor as a laughing stock for your little band of drunken revelers?"

"Never, my lord!" Georg replied, bowing low before Neramo. "We would never permit the Ambassador's secretary to suffer such indignation. No, we were merely beginning the pouring of the wine, as is our custom."

"Hmph," snorted Neramo. "In civilized places, the wine is not poured until all invited have been seated. Still, I should not expect refinement among you humans." He walked along the table opposite where Crixus sat, glaring down at those at said table. He came to the middle table, the one reserved for the most important guests, and, without being offered a seat, promptly sat himself down in the Count's seat.

"I see a seat has been saved for my arrival," he said to Dorian and Georg, who still stood on his right and left-hand sides. "How very touching. Now, let's not have the servants idling on my account. Carry on, carry on."

Georg ran his bell again and the servants appeared with bottles to pour the wine into everyone's cups. Those seated began to talk while the wine was flowing. Venerius leaned over and whispered into Crixus' ear: "Shameful, utterly shameful. And disgracing."

"What?" Servius Crixus asked.

"That Neramo fellow," Venerius stated. "I've heard about him. They say he's the new Thalmor Ambassador's secretary. Not even a military rank! Shameful!"

"And what's so shameful?"

"Didn't you just see?" the brother replied, gesturing with his eyes towards the occupied Count's seat. "Look at him, sitting there with a smug grin on his face, lording his power over us like some kind of king!"

"I'm still not seeing it," Crixus replied, refusing to acknowledge what his brother had seen.

"He's seated in the Count's seat!" Venerius hissed. "Reminding us lowly Imperials who really runs this Empire. They walk all over the Elder Council and the House of Nobles, I see and hear about it every day."

"Don't be paranoid, brother," Crixus shook his head. "No one has that amount of influence, especially here in Cyrodiil, and if they did, we would know about it. That Thalmor secretary can plop his yellow arse wherever the fuck he wants to. No concern of mine."

"It should be your concern," Venerius returned. "It should be everyone's concern!"

Venerius' words were cut short. Near at hand, Crixus heard Dorian address Hemming and, weary of his brother telling him what he did not want to hear or believe, he turned his attention to what the vintner and the fop were discussing.

"I hear," Dorian said. "That there has been some trouble in Cheydinhal. Riots, looting, fires, robberies, blood in the streets. I do hope this hasn't stymied your family's business."

"On the contrary," Hemming replied. "My mother is a skilled business-woman, and she has many friends. The Black-Briar meadery in Cheydinhal is working at full capacity. The...unfortunate things you mentioned happen only on the eastern side of the city."

"But what about this rumor of this killer?" Dorian asked. "The Butcher, they're calling him. Rumor has it that he's back in Cheydinhal, and he's killing again, on the east and west. Isn't his presence a threat to you and your business?"

"Hardly," Hemming grinned. "The family business flourishes under such extreme conditions. And as for myself, I am a trained swordsman. My mother spared no expense with my training: the finest fencing masters from Hammerfell, House Redoran and Alinor were brought to Riften to educate me. I've been taught to wield a blade as if it were an extension of my own body."

"And how many people have you fought, hmm?" Dorian asked. "I mean, after all, you're a Nord from Skyrim." He chuckled, and those around him chuckled in reply. "Everyone fights over there, right? You must have fought quite a few people in your day, right?"

"Yes, I have," Hemming added. "Most notably was the one who threw my family out of Skyrim. This folk-hero, this...Dragonborn. Do not believe any of the rumors they tell about him: he is weak. In my country, we call such people 'milk-drinkers', because they haven't the stomach for mead, a man's drink. I fought him in the streets of Riften, and after two passes, I had brought the brute to his knees. He was begging and pleading for mercy: quite pathetic, really."

"Is that so?" Crixus, who guessed that this story was bullshit, interjected. "Why, then, were _you_ the ones thrown out of Skyrim and not him?" Eirik was many things, both in truth and what Crixus believed him to be, but, even under the delusion that he was the Grey Spirit, Crixus would never believe that Eirik would beg or plead for mercy, not from anyone.

"My mother...didn't want to cause a scene," Hemming replied uncomfortably.

"Come come," Georg interjected. "This is a happy occasion. Drink wine and be merry, and leave all hard feelings and worries beyond these walls."

Hemming grinned at Crixus as if he had gained a victory, while Crixus scowled and turned back to his brother.

"So, Servius," Venerius said. "It's been a long time since we were last together like this. How is father? He still living with that old b*tch?"

"You don't know?" Crixus asked.

"Know what?" Venerius replied.

"Father's dead," Crixus grimly replied. "He died during the War."

"What happened?" Venerius gasped, a look of horror on his face.

"The Dominion attacked Anvil," Crixus stated. "At least once during the War on their march to Hammerfell. He was called out with the city guard to defend it, and he fell during the fighting."

"Are you sure?" Venerius asked, his face still stricken with disbelief.

"Positive," Crixus replied. "When the 9th Legion marched into Hammerfell, we passed by Anvil. General Claxitus gave me one day's leave to visit my family. That's when I heard that father was dead." He had been buried outside of the city in the graveyard to the northwest, but Crixus hadn't visited it when he returned to Anvil recently.

"And what of the old dark elf b*tch?" Venerius asked. "Is she dead too?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "There was another grave dug next to father's. I...dug it up..."

"You what?" Venerius exclaimed. "Look, no one knows how bad she was more than I do, but to dig up a grave..."

"I had to make sure," Crixus replied, with teeth clenched. "That she was truly dead. I know that Dunmer witch could have survived anything. But not this time. I saw the body...the Dominion must have hated her as much as we did, because her face was burned away. Only a charred, blackened skull was there...a Dunmer's skull. She is dead."

"And what about you?" Venerius asked. "What happened to you? I've not been able to come back to Anvil, due to my many obligations. What have you been doing these past twenty-seven years or so?"

Crixus began with an abridged version of his exploits. He left out the more unscrupulous details of his life, such as 'his goddess', the Dunmer woman he married in Mournhold and was still married to when he came to Skyrim, his dealings with the Thieves Guild, the Dark Brotherhood and the death of the Emperor. He painted his life the way he wanted to be seen, by only the best aspects and the most flattering depictions.

"I only wish," Crixus added. "That I could have been there to kill Ulfric Storm-cunt myself."

"Do you hear that?" Venerius exclaimed. "We've got ourselves a war hero here." As the servant poured the Surilie 190 into his cup, Venerius, despite his brother's protests, rose to his feet, holding up his silver cup before all around him. "Once you've all had your cups filled, may I propose a toast, noble host and you, esteemed guests?"

"By all means, Brother Crixus," Georg allowed.

"We have here in our midst," Venerius continued. "One who has worked tirelessly for the good of the Empire. One who has, but a few weeks ago, returned home after a great struggle against the rebels in the Northern province of Skyrim."

"Damn Skyrim and damn the Nords!" Urtius cried out.

"Hear hear!" every human at the table cried out, even Hemming Black-Briar who was himself a Nord. Crixus said nothing, sinking as he was into his chair, hoping that he could escape without being noticed. Too late he saw that Neramo, who had not taken up the cheer, was watching Venerius. Every moment or so, his golden eyes flashed to him.

"It is precisely," Marius Imbrex stated. "Because of the Nord problem that I have come here to the auspices of the Surilie Family..."

"Please, Chancellor Imbrex," Dorian interjected. "Brother Crixus has not yet finished his toast." He then turned back to Venerius and waved him on.

"As we all know," Venerius continued. "General Flavius Tullius has returned to Cyrodiil from his campaign against the Nords. He is, for the time being, waylaid in Bruma, as the esteemed and illustrious Chancellor Imbrex will doubtless confirm. But, upon his arrival in the Imperial City, he shall march to the Old City in a grand cavalcade, honoring his victory against the rebels. In that hour, he will be the hero of the people of Cyrodiil and shall receive their honor. But we have the rare privilege of having one who served under him in our presence, under this very roof, who honors us all by being here. My brother Servius Crixus!"

There was a general murmur of cheers, congratulations and applause. Crixus grinned uneasily as he leaned over to his brother and whispered: "Sit down and shut the fuck up!"

"You deserve more honor than this for serving the Empire, brother," Venerius replied, then turned back to the guests. By this time, the servants had poured wine for everyone at the table. They now rose their cups up to join Venerius in his toast.

"To Servius Crixus!" he toasted. The others followed suit and drank from their goblets. As the younger Crixus sat down, the older one seized him by the back of his neck, wrapping his hands in a tight vice, the way he recalled Sedris Ulver doing to them when they were younger, and whispered into his ear.

"I'd keep a lid on it if I were you," he hissed.

"I just wanted to give you your well-deserved recognition," Venerius stammered.

"I've survived this long," Servius hissed, teeth clenched. "Because I keep _out_ of the eyes of others. Now you've just outed me in front of the..."

But at that moment, he was interrupted as a final entourage arrived late to the party. A tall man walked into the hall, dressed in black with a silver amulet with a wolf's head hanging upon his neck. He had short, slicked greasy dark hair streaked with gray. He had small, beady eyes that shifted nervously to everyone in the room and Crixus noted that his left hand hung at his side, flexing and clenching rapidly. His right hand was resting on the shoulders of a young boy with downcast eyes.

"Count Romulus!" Georg announced, rising to his feet. "I'm deeply sorry that you were late in arriving at our feast."

"No, no," stammered Brachus Romulus. "I-I...I'm the one who should apologize. Things have been difficult since those rabble-rousers drove poor Publius out of Kvatch. Animists, bandits, wild Nords, plague, and now there's rumors of a wild hunt on the borders of Valenwood and Elsweyr. Our cities have become islands under siege!"

"Will you please take your seat?" Dorian asked.

Brachus stammered on his way to the chair and stool between the Crixian brothers and the Surilie family, stumbling all along the way. At last he came to the chair and ordered the boy to sit in the stool while he sat down. Once seated, he placed his hand on the boy's shoulders and Servius Crixus noticed the boy quiver with the older man's touch. In his mind he saw Viator Matius sitting at his side, fists clenched, eying Count Romulus and muttering every expletive known to elves, men and beast-folk in Tamriel under his breath.

"Good, we're all here," Georg smiled. "Dinner may now be served."

The food was much finer than anything Crixus had tasted at the table of his cousin Selvia Maro. The appetizers alone were some of the most fabulous things of any feast in the West Weald or Nibenay Basin. Fried Scaly Pholiota caps stuffed with pork, spiced and breaded mudcrab cakes and garlic bread with rich, oily brown sauce for dipping. They ate in relative silence, while Crixus, who was still angry at his brother for outing him, looked around the room instead. Nermao ate nothing, drinking instead from his cup. Hemming greedily stuffed his face with as many appetizers as he could get his hands on, while Chancellor Imbrex eyed him with disgust. Procurus and Drusilla also ate very little, looking around at everyone else. Romulus ate heartily, but gave no food to the little boy at his side.

"Now, then," Dorian spoke up. "My brother is a very accommodating host, but there are doubtless reasons for your visits. Let's have it out, then."

"As always," Neramo stated. "I'm here to insure the interests of the Thalmor Ambassador are met. We're very interested in the welfare of Skingrad, you know."

"Is that so?" Dorian asked, winking. "Now, then, what about you, Chancellor Imbrex?"

"Hmm?" Imbrex muttered. "Very well, I will speak. My lord, Count Edvald the Wise, is very concerned about the welfare of his city, Bruma."

"As are we all," Neramo added. "Bruma is the gateway to Skyrim, and with the rumors of unrest in the North, the welfare of Bruma is a very important situation for us all."

"No, no," Imbrex shook his head. "There is only one problem with Bruma, my lords, and it is a simple one: it's full of Nords. They've been infecting our pure, beloved Empire with their barbarous bile. I've seen what Tullius' brave and bold Legions consist of, and it's not proud, swarthy men of Cyrodiil, it's these white scum of the North."

"Isn't that because of the Elder Council?" asked Dorian. "The plague, Cheydinhal, Leyawiin, dangers from Elsweyr and Valenwood; reasons for the Empire to keep their Legions outside of Skyrim."

"There are no dangers to be found in Valenwood and Elsweyr," Neramo replied. "Unlike you humans, _our_ allies are not prone to rebellion and insurrection against lawful authority."

"The more we let these scum into our Legions," Imbrex continued. "The greater danger we face as an Empire and as a race. The pure, Cyro-Nibenese culture of the Empire is threatened by Tullius' unfortunate decision to include Nords into the Legion. What happens after they've served their twenty years, these country bumpkins, these Nords, village guards, farmers, brigands who joined the Legion to escape justice? Will they become citizens of the Empire? Will they be allowed to own land here in beautiful Cyrodiil, or have a state house on the Cerunian District? Will they bring their tribal traditions, their heathen customs and folkish superstitions to our beloved Cyrodiil? These are the fears of my lord Count Edvald and many of the Colovian gentry of Bruma and other counties in Cyrodiil."

"While I am inclined to agree," Brachus Romulus spoke up. "That the Nords are a troublesome lot and need tending to, is this not a bit much, what you are postulating? Nords have integrated into Imperial society since the days of the Septims. We have nothing to fear from the savages of the North."

"Oh, but we do, my lord," Imbrex replied. "This rebellion in Skyrim proves that we are threatened by the white mongrels of the North. Ulfric Stormcloak was a Legionnaire, yet he was the one who began this rebellion against his rightful lord and all that the Empire stands for! It stands to prove that one may take the barbarian out of Skyrim, but one can never take Skyrim out of the barbarian. Once a savage, always a savage. My lord's father had a...softer approach to these Nords. He believed the ignorant could be weeded out and educated, brought up to the standard of our ways of living. Time has proven that he was too soft in his treatment: my lord, Edvald the Wise, has a much greater plan."

"What is that?" Crixus asked.

"Violence is the only thing these monsters understand," Imbrex stated. "Therefore desperate times must needs be met with by desperate measures. A final solution to the Nord problem would involve a..." He cleared his throat. "...drastic reduction of the Nord population of Bruma, as a start. As it stands, the Nord's make up more than two thirds of the population of the city: a much better situation would be one that sees their population reduced to only ten percent of the total population of Bruma."

"And how would you bring about this drastic reduction?" Crixus asked.

"Ah," Imbrex grinned. "Therein lies the tale, the answer to a riddle that my lord has yet to answer. For, surely, if he had, there would be no longer an issue with these barbarians. We've tried deporting them back to Skyrim, but the civil war has closed the borders. General Tullius spared none who crossed the borders, no matter what race they were. The weapons ban has been a hot issue in Bruma, though we've had no success in raising enough troops to effect more lasting removals. Even with Tullius' Legions, they have more Nords than Imperials."

"I should come to Bruma, then," Crixus stated. "I have some ideas on how to combat this Nord problem."

"Any assistance is much appreciated, Crixus," Imbrex nodded. "The Count will want to know about your skills and expertise, especially in regards to this problem. I will do my best to prepare a worthy introduction, but I cannot promise anything at the moment."

At this, Georg cleared his throat and rang his silver bell. While he spoke to Linghorn regarding the main course, Pelagius-Lucan was eying Crixus from the top of his glass but said and ate very little. Moments later the feast came out: and what a feast it was! Duck, pheasant, fish, pork and porpoise, grilled, fried, roasted, braised and prepared in every way imaginable, dripping with rich sauces and coated in fine seasonings. There were bowls of soup and warm, savory pies filled with the best meat and vegetables the Colovian Highlands had to offer.

Everyone ate as much as they could from the many entrees presented. While the servants were serving the Surilie Family, Georg spoke to Brachus Romulus about moving his wineries into the hill country around Kvatch: Crixus noted that Romulus was much more open to suggestion in the absence of Publius Varro. Drusilla Caro and Procurus were arguing over magic and its potentially lethal uses. Neramo, like Pelagius, watched everyone in the room, like a wolf eying the sheep, savoring the kill to come.

"My lords," Cassius Urtius spoke with a mouthful of salted pork. "This is truly an exquisite feast. You have spared no expense on our behalf and for that, I am most grateful. It is good to see that there are still some of the old wealth who remain in power in Cyrodiil."

"Oh, we are certainly an old family," Dorian chuckled as he washed down a side of potatoes and leeks with his family's 190 vintage. "And, while times have hit us hard, we have prospered."

"Yes, perhaps," Urtius continued. "Now would be the time to put some of that hard and well-earned wealth to proper use?"

"And what proper use would this be, my lord?" Dorian asked.

"The removal of the Maro family from Anvil," Urtius stated. "Gods, they're a blight upon the nobility of Cyrodiil, cavorting with commoners, farmers, fishermen, whores. They bring down the throne which fate has cursed them to inhabit...in _my _stead, that is!"

"Lord Urtius," Neramo interjected. "As you know, the Surilie Family's wealth lies in wine. Perhaps the person you should be speaking to regarding this matter is me?"

"Servius!" Venerius spoke, interrupting Crixus' train of thought as he watched the goings on around them.

"What is it now?" Servius groaned.

"You're being rather close, brother," Venerius replied.

"Well, what do you expect?" Crixus asked. "I was drugged, kidnapped, captured by bandits and robbed!"

"Shh!" Venerius hushed. "Not so loud."

"Why not?" Crixus retorted.

Venerius paused to swallow down a bite of shepherd's pie. "There are things happening in Skingrad that are bigger than all of this. Very old things, very powerful things."

_Now you're starting to sound like Boderic,_ Crixus thought inwardly. Outwardly he said: "Powerful, eh?"

"Why do you think Sixth Canon Procurus is here?"

"For the buxom Caro b*tch?" Crixus postulated.

"No," Venerius shook his head. "Both the Synod and the College of Whispers have been trying to gain a foot-hold in Skingrad over the past two centuries. For a time, the College had the upper hand until the plague broke out."

"Why do the Synod and the College of Whispers want control of Skingrad?" Crixus asked.

Venerius looked around, then whispered in his brother's ear. "There's something in Skingrad. Something powerful, something that has evaded the watchfulness of the Synod and the College of Whispers and, before them, the Mages Guild for centuries. That's why we've been called in, the Vigil of Stendarr."

"You're with the Vigil of Stendarr?" Crixus asked. "I thought they were wiped out just recently."

"Only the Hall in Skyrim," Venerius replied. "I was sent back here with warning by Keeper Carcette as the worst began to unfurl, but...well, then I fell in with the Silver Hand."

"Hmm," Crixus mused. "So, is this what you've been doing all these years? Serving Stendarr as a fanatic in his cause? I thought you ran away from home to join the Legion. I mean, we were talking about that, leaving that old b*tch behind, but I didn't think you were serious until..." Crixus noticed that his brother's good-natured grin had fallen. He now shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes frequenting the wine in his glass and the shepherd's pie on his plate.

"I was in the Legion," Venerius began. "But it...it didn't take."

"What do you mean 'it didn't take?'" Crixus asked.

"I..." Venerius sighed, looked around again, then leaned in closer to Crixus. "Let's talk about this in the store-room. Follow me." Afterwards he rose from his seat, clandestinely walked over to Georg and asked to be excused. With the Surilie Family's permission, Venerius left the hall and gestured for his brother to follow him. They went into a deserted store-room whose floor was covered in a thin layer of sawdust. Once Servius entered the room, Venerius shut the door behind him and thus began.

"Alright, here we are," Crixus began. "So what do you mean?"

"First of all," Venerius said, turning around from the door to face his brother. His face was deathly pale and his next words came out slow and fearfully. "I have to know that I can trust you.

"Of course," Crixus replied, a grin on his face. "I'm your brother, we're family. Who else can you trust?"

Venerius sighed, then at last gave his admittance. "I wasn't ready, for the Legion, I mean. I thought I could handle the Legion. I couldn't."

"So what did you do?" Crixus asked.

"I ran," Venerius stated.

"You deserted, you mean?" Crixus retorted.

"I was a young boy," Venerius returned. "I wasn't strong, I couldn't do any of the marches or exercises they demanded of us. And I wouldn't allow myself to be broken and turned into just another piece of meat."

"Is _that_ what you think of me?" Crixus asked. "Of those who died for your ungrateful arse? Of your father? We're all just fucking pieces of meat?"

"It wasn't for me, alright?" Venerius retorted. "So I ran, and I found asylum among the Vigilants of Stendarr. Faith was always something of a high point in our family, you remember? Father always taught us to worship the Divines."

"Don't get smug with me, Venerius," Crixus interjected. "If you'd been there, if you'd seen what we went through in the War, you wouldn't be standing here with that fucking stupid grin on your face and the Divines on your lips."

"I was sent to Skyrim," Venerius stated. "To hunt down vampires that they said were coming back in great numbers over there. Then there was the attack and I..." His voice cracked and tears fell from his eyes. "...and I ran."

"You little fuck," Crixus retorted.

"I didn't know what else to do!" Venerius returned. "I saw my brothers and sisters' heads caved in by those red-eyed monsters. There was blood on me, blood on the living, blood on the dead, blood on the doors, blood on the walls, blood just about everywhere! Carcette could barely speak over the screams and the roar of the flames. She told me to run, so I ran."

"Then you ran to where, the Silver Hand?" Crixus asked.

"They respected the Vigil and the Knights of the Nine," Venerius replied. "We were hunting werewolves now, and I was out on the hunt with several of them. We came back to our camp at Gallows Rock...and everyone was dead. Bodies cut in two, heads hacked off from bodies, severed limbs, blood everywhere. I ran...again." There was silence until, at last, Crixus punched his brother in the face.

"You fucking turncoat," he glowered lowly. "You cowardly little shite!"

"Don't say that!" Venerius retorted.

"Why?" Crixus shouted. "Because that b*tch called you that when you quailed beneath her wrath? Maybe she was right! At least I fought back against her, at least I didn't run from my duty like a Nord coward! Father must be turning in his grave over your fucking behavior, dishonoring him and everything he taught us!"

"He taught us loyalty!" Venerius shouted, face flustered in consternation and eyes streaming with tears.

"Don't you dare fucking turn this around on me!" Crixus retorted. "Unlike you, I actually _am_ loyal. I never ran from my duties or shirked from my responsibilities. Father _did_ teach us loyalty, loyalty to the Empire."

"And I serve them in my own way!" Venerius retorted.

"By running like a little b*tch?" Crixus asked. At this he spat directly in his brother's face.

"You take that back," Venerius said in a low voice, trying to sound threatening before his bigger brother.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "Now go, you little shite, go do what you do best. Run. Because the next time I see you, I will fucking kill you!"

"I'm your own brother!" Venerius gasped in horror. "Does blood mean nothing to you?"

"I killed cousin Gaius," Crixus admitted. "Because he was a scared little shite who was unworthy of the Penitus Oculatus. Don't think I won't do the same to you too...you son of a b*tch."

"Don't you talk about our mother that way, Servius," Venerius returned, anger rising up inside him.

"_My_ mother!" Crixus retorted. "And you don't get to fucking call me 'Servius' as if you've earned the right to my name. Now go, before I ring your neck with my bare hands."

Venerius' eyes were wide with disbelief as he walked back to the door, pulled the latch and walked out of the store-room. Servius Crixus, meanwhile, realized that he was gasping for air and short of breath. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be worked up into such a frenzy of rage that nothing mattered to him: not blood, alliances, promises or anything, only his desire to rage against those who wronged him. Now he was regretting his admittance of the death of Gaius Maro. Before it seemed as though he had tried to excuse himself from that: it was an accident, he tried to shut Gaius up, cover his mouth with his hands, but his knife was in his hands and he slit his throat instead.

Tonight was the first time he admitted that _he_ had killed him on purpose, owning up to his own mistake.

"Looking for someone?" a familiar voice asked.

* * *

**(AN: Good news and bad news. The good news is that summer is soon coming and, hopefully, i'll be able to dedicate more time to this as well as music-writing and recording. The bad news is that my temp job assignment ended, so no more regular work washing dishes [which sucks because i was starting to like that job, mostly for its regularity])**

**(I had a lot planned for the feast, and it seemed like each chapter title i came up with gave too much away, especially about the latter half and what Crixus learned. So i went with the title of a _Kamelot_ song [i miss Roy Khan]. The conclusion of the feast will appear in the next chapter, as well as where Crixus learns what happened to Larth. Stay tuned for more coming soon.)**


	26. The Pursuit

**(AN: Sometimes you really need to have your hero do some fantastic feat that would be worthy of song. Eirik gets plenty of such moments, slaying Alduin, traversing the Soul Cairn, saving the Companions, breaking the Imperial blockade of Windhelm, etc. While Crixus certainly has several such moments, he also needs something big. Here is one such moment.)**

**(Thank you for the reviews. I can't say that I've read anything by Goodkind or Rand [i've heard good and bad things about _Atlas Shrugged_], but i was surprised that you picked up so much. I feel like i haven't been describing Cyrodiil enough, visually as well as politically. Like i watch - via proxy - shows like _The Following_ and realize that my enemies are rather tame compared to those featured therein: hell, even Benjin seemed small time compared to some of the bad guys in _The Following_.)**

* * *

**The Pursuit**

Crixus turned about and saw Pelagius standing there, hands folded together in front of him and a knowing look upon his thin, pinched face.

"How much did you hear?" were the first words out Crixus' mouth.

"Every word, unfortunately," Pelagius replied. "And I understand why you keep secrets. People like us often have to."

"People like us?" Crixus asked.

"Dangerous people," Pelagius stated.

Crixus scoffed. "You, dangerous? You look like a strong wind could knock you down."

"Yes, it's true," Pelagius admitted. "I'm not possessed of a strong physique like those gladiators in the Kvatch Arena, or of a soldier of the Imperial Legions, but I have suffered much in the service of the Empire and the House of Nobles. I know what it is to feel true pain. Do you?"

"Do I what?" Crixus asked.

"Feel pain?" Pelagius continued. "Any kind of pain. Some of us can be scourged with whips of iron hooks or stretched upon the racks of the dungeons of the Counts and the Thalmor for years and yet have one brief moment that is worse than all the rest. Have you had such a moment, Servius Crixus? Did you feel that pain when you slew your cousin?"

"No," Crixus replied without hesitation. "I didn't want to know him or his family. I was quite content with them being nothing more than a memory, one that would remain perfect, untouched and untarnished by time or experience. Is that what you want to hear, is it?"

"I asked you if you were looking for someone," Pelagius replied. "You know, I've been here for quite a while. I was here before you and your companions arrived. That Boderic Vesnia, you should keep him close. Religious men are very useful, especially to people like us. Viator Matius I have heard of as well: a hedge knight with loyalties to no one but himself. You should be wary of him, but not discount him on account of his crass behavior. An irreligious man may be just as useful as a religious one, and their loyalties are much cheaper to buy than those of the religious persuasion."

"Uh-huh," Crixus murmured. "And what about you, sir? Where do you stand?"

"I serve the interest of the Empire, as I have said before," Pelagius stated. "And it is my task to look after her, especially if you will not."

"What do you mean 'if I will not?'" Crixus retorted.

"Weren't you the one who refused my offer the first time?" Pelagius queried. "And now you've done worse than refuse, you've threatened the very safety of the realm by robbing Kvatch of strength."

"I thought that was the plan all along!" Crixus hissed. "Get rid of Varro, make Platorius the chancellor."

"Oh, that may have been your plan," said Pelagius. "And, what it was, has now gone awry. Brachus Romulus is one of the least competent lords of the House of Nobles, and without the strength Varro provided, the other lords will swoop down upon Kvatch like vultures. Or do they not have vultures in Mournhold?"

Crixus' face blanched. "What did you say?"

"You're not nearly as clever as you think," Pelagius replied. "And my ears are as keen as your own."

"I wonder just how many others know as much about my business as you do, Lucan," Crixus grumbled. "If that's even your real name."

"If it makes you more comfortable to call me Lucan," Pelagius replied. "You may call me that. It's certainly not my name, neither is Pelagius. As for how many others are as informed as you are, well, I would say the number is small but significant. The Dominion are certainly curious about you."

"About me?" Crixus asked.

"If you were indeed active in Skyrim recently," Pelagius continued. "Then the Thalmor there had some record of your activities. With the dismantling of the Skyrim Thalmor agency by these...renegade lawmakers, these Sons of Skyrim, there has been much consternation along the Thalmor channels of information."

"And how do you know all of this?" Crixus asked. "Are you a Thalmor spy?"

"Hardly," Pelagius grinned. "I have many agents in my employ, and they tell me many things. Such as, after the Siege of Solitude, the Dominion agents tried to smuggle as many documents out of their little embassy in Haafingar before it was raided and raised by the Sons of Skyrim. If any of those documents made it to Cyrodiil, and a wise man would assume they have, then it is plain that the current Thalmor Ambassador is in possession of all that there is to know about your actions of late."

"And who is the new Thalmor Ambassador?" Crixus asked.

"Lady Arannelya, my sources tell me," Pelagius stated.

Once again Crixus was brought to a pause. He had heard the name mentioned quite frequently. It was she who made constant battle with the Legion forces in Hammerfell during the War and was the chief enemy of the Ninth Legion while they were in Hammerfell after the War. It was rumored that she had made an allegiance with the Alik'r to drive the Empire out of the deserts of Hammerfell, though this was still unconfirmed. She had also led the Dominion forces to pursue the Ninth Legion and drive them into the mountains, especially that one, narrow, bloody pass where the Red Dog had risen. Yes, Crixus knew her all too well.

He knew _Her_ all too well.

"I see," Crixus mused, trying to keep his face neutral in light of this news.

"Therefore I extend to you my offer yet again," Pelagius stated. "Together we can save the Empire. You need my contacts and my expertise as much as hedge knights and holy orders."

"I know," Crixus replied. "Perhaps we will meet each other again once I arrive in Chorrol. I was invited there, to meet a friend who may be useful in this endeavor."

"My quarry still lies ahead," Pelagius replied. "And I am of the belief that she did not leave Skingrad."

"She?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, but I can say no more," Pelagius added. "Now, then, about my offer..."

"I'm still considering it," Crixus stated.

"Nevertheless," Pelagius replied. "I would advise haste in this matter. Already time has been lost. Kvatch stands upon the brink of annihilation while Skingrad stands on one foot alone. A strong, united Empire is what we need."

"Yes, I know," Crixus nodded. "So, then, tell me this, before I go. If you have such knowledge about me, what do you know of my friend, the wise animist Larth?"

"Personally, I know nothing about him," Pelagius said. "He's no nobleman's son or influential person of his own. A bumpkin bedazzled by the fine words of these animal worshipers. In the end, however, he is harmless."

"Harmless?" Crixus chuckled. "Didn't think you'd be saying that about anyone or anything."

"The animal worshipers _are_ harmless," Pelagius clarified. "Oh, it's true, they have become a nuisance of late, but a strong, united Empire would drive them deep into the forests, cutting them off from the roots of plunder and supply. They would be forced to live off the land, starve or return to the fold of the Empire. They are harmless."

"I see," Crixus stated. "And do you happen to know where this harmless man went off to? One moment he was with me, the next he was missing."

"Yes, an unfortunate side effect of living so close to the city of Skingrad," Pelagius stated. "Normally, I would advise against putting stock in old wives tales, but in this case, it seems the old wives of Skingrad knew what they were talking about when they warned their children about vampires in the woods at night."

"Are you saying he was abducted by vampires?" Crixus scoffed.

"If he was," Pelagius replied. "You can be certain he's dead. However, as it turns out, I saw that he was captured by another kind. Death by his hands would be much more painful than the vampire, if I might say so myself."

"Another kind," Crixus repeated. "Do you mean the bandits? This...Benjin the Bold?"

"Perhaps," Pelagius shrugged. "There are many bandits in Skingrad, taking advantage of the chaos caused by the plague these days."

"But the city's surrounded by the Legion," Crixus stated. "How am I supposed to get in?"

"The city is surrounded," Pelagius nodded. "But the legate in charge of the blockade is not wholly without mercy. Though he was given the order to keep those inside the city from leaving, and those outside the city from entering it, he runs supply caravans right up to the walls of the city and into the no man's land."

"Why are you telling me this?" Crixus asked.

"There's an old Dunmer proverb," Pelagius stated. "I'm sure you're quite familiar with it: don't look a gift-guar in the mouth."

"You mean you're just giving me this knowledge?" Crixus asked. "For free?"

"I am giving you this knowledge, yes," Pelagius nodded. "But not for free."

"Name your price," Crixus returned.

"I can't," Pelagius stated. "I haven't decided on a price."

"So you can give this to me without a price?" asked Crixus.

"I'll name my price when it is convenient for both of us," Pelagius stated, a sly grin on his face.

"No, I want to know what it is right now," Crixus retorted. "I haven't got any money. My fucking rescuer stole all my money."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to earn more," Pelagius winked. "You certainly seem like one who finds money in the most unlikely places."

"Right," Crixus nodded, remembering the sign of the Tower, his own birth sign. "Hey, now, can you answer me something?"

"What is that?" Pelagius asked.

"What can you tell me about the Tower?" Crixus asked.

"I know that it's a birth sign," Pelagius stated. "But while I know that there is more than just that, such knowledge is beyond me. Tending to the needs of the Empire in the here and now are more than sufficient for a man of my talents. A word of caution, however."

"Caution?"

"Beware who you talk to concerning the Tower," Pelagius warned. "Men have died asking questions about it. Died in such ways that no one who outlived them were able to discern that they had died in any other way besides suicide. I hope that will not be your fate."

"Uh-huh?" Crixus asked. "And why would you be so considerate towards me?"

"I am just one man," Pelagius stated. "With great ambitions. But ambition alone cannot save the Empire in her time of need. If I am not mistaken, you also have ambitions of your own, ambitions that run in concert with mine. Alone we are each only one man, but together..." He grinned. "We may be the last hope for this Empire."

"If you say so," Crixus nodded.

"Now, then," Pelagius commented coyly. "We must get back to the feast, right? Dessert should be served shortly. Only the best foods will be served, I hear: the finest pastries and sweet-rolls between here and High Rock, brandies, ice-berries from Hammerfell and all other rare delicacies."

"Right," Crixus grinned.

Without uttering another word, Crixus turned and left the store-room. He made his way towards the feasting hall, but stepped back as he saw Neramo walking through the corridors. Next to him was a hooded Thalmor agent, writing words on a roll of parchment, while Neramo had on his gloved hand a hooded raven. Crixus was about to step out when he saw Urtius hobbling after them. Hearing his words at the dinner table, he paused and paid heed.

"Lord Urtius?" Neramo asked. "I thought you would be enjoying the feast. I hear the Sixth Canon is regaling the audience with tales of his journeys into the realms of Oblivion."

"Oblivion take the College of Whispers," Urtius muttered. "I'm here for the Maro problem, the one I spoke of at dinner."

"Yes, yes," Neramo groaned. "So, what is it you need? Be quick about it, my time is very valuable."

"Well, I was promised the support of your organization in taking the throne of Anvil," Urtius replied. "Instead I am forced into hiding like a common thief and sit at banquet with the very scum who was responsible for my exile! It's insulting, degrading and infuriating! And your organization does nothing about this!"

"If you talk of this nameless spy," Nermao muttered. "He is of no concern to us. We've gotten all the information out of him that we could over the years. Now, if you are referring to this other one, this Servius Crixus, then perhaps my organization could be of assistance in this matter?"

"I can't believe," chuckled Urtius. "There are actually people who _hate_ your kind! You Altmer are the most helpful, thorough and respectful of all peoples I've met since leaving Anvil!"

"Of course, as you know, we have our prices," Neramo stated.

"Whatever price, I will pay it," Urtius replied. "I must have the throne of Anvil!"

Crixus tried to move, when suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning about, he saw Pelagius still standing behind him. The man shook his head, then disappeared down the hallway. With a grimace, Crixus followed after him. It would be a long walk back to Blackberry Hall.

* * *

Late that evening, he found himself walking through a field of grape-vines shrouded in darkness. Ever and anon fire-balls would soar towards him, but, out of no command of his own, ward spells were conjured to reflect the fiery projectiles into the fields, setting them ablaze. The one throwing the lethal pyrotechnics was none other than the tall, lanky bald Procurus Florius, Sixth Canon of the College of Whispers. Though he was in greater shape than Marius Imbrex or Brachus Romulus, Crixus seemed to be moving faster. Then, to his surprise, he saw the Canon vanish in a burst of emerald light.

"_Wuld...Nah Kest!_" he heard his own voice Shout.

The vines around him swayed and blew back as the whirlwind carried Crixus forward farther and faster than he had ever seen Eirik move using that particular Shout. Procurus fell to the ground before him and he, halting from the pursuit, turned around and gazed down at his quarry. He spoke, but his voice sounded dull and lifeless, trapped within his ears and going nowhere else. A deeper voice, thickly accented, spoke in his stead.

"Procurus Florius," said the voice. "Tell me all you know about Mysticism."

The narrow man laughed. "You fool. No one studies Mysticism anymore. It's a dead art. Even the College of Whispers no longer consider it viable, even for historic research."

"You lie!" the voice replied.

"I know nothing else!" Florius replied defiantly. "Your search is in vain."

"_Gol...Hah Dov!_" the voice shouted. Procurus' dark eyes glazed over and a vacant expression filled his face. "Now, tell me all that you know about Mysticism."

"I know nothing, my lord," Florius shook his head. "It was never my place of study. It was discontinued, said to be too dangerous. The wanderer still practices it, as far as the College and the Synod knows."

"Who is this wanderer?" Crixus demanded.

"He never stays in the same place twice, my lord," Florius replied. "Always evaded capture. No one has even seen his face!"

"How do you know there _is_ such a wanderer?" Crixus asked.

"Rumors, my lord," Florius answered. "They say he appears, mostly around Cheydinhal or in the Valus Mountains, helping out those he deems worthy, then disappears without a trace."

What happened next vanished into darkness as Crixus found himself lying in a field, still dressed in his traveling gear, sore and filthy. Only the echoes of a voice crying out in agony could he hear, still ringing in his head. The phrases 'Mysticism', 'the Wanderer' and 'the Valus Mountains' were somehow burned into the back of his mind, and never left even if he tried to forget about them.

* * *

Suddenly he heard cart-wheels rumbling near at hand. His first instinct, especially after what had happened to him before, was to crouch down to the ground as low as possible. The rumbling grew closer and Crixus dared to look up to see what was before him. To his surprise, he found a cart filled not with bodies but with heavy burlap sacks. His mind flashed back to what Pelagius-Lucan said and, thinking fast, he whispered for Nocturnal's shadows to hide him. Carefully he rose up, ready to sneak through the grape-vines and climb into the back of the wagon. He then immediately thought otherwise: there were six men around the cart, two servants driving the horse that led the cart, and four city guards around it. They would certainly see him if he climbed atop the cart as it was.

An idea came to mind and he, feeling on his person a bit, found the knife he had been given by the shrouded figure that stole his purse in the city. Taking it out, he threw it at the side of the cart, then crept underneath the wooden undergrowth on the row of grapes as the cart came to a halt and the guards stood their ground near where the knife struck. With their backs turned, Crixus crept into the lane, around to the other side of the cart, then climbed inside and covered himself with the heavy sack-cloth rain-tarp that lay inside.

A foolish ploy in hindsight, but Crixus hoped to be well within the no man's land and out of range of the Imperial archers of the blockade by the time he was either discovered or climbed out of the cart.

For the next thirty minutes, Crixus was the sorry passenger inside the supply wagon. He felt with profound agony every bump, wine-branch, rock and pot-hole the wagon-wheels rumbled over on their way eastward. He kept his soreness to himself, for he was still under their watch and any noise would give him away.

At long last, the cart came to a halt and he heard Nibenay voices just outside. Apparently the cart was going to switch owners now, and Crixus bit his lower lip in consternation. As he heard no sound of battle and warfare, he assumed that these were neither bandits nor whatever had the red eyes the night before. Though relieved that he would be in Legion hands, he was still concerned that he was not thoroughly safe. What if they pulled off the tarp? Surely his invisibility had vanished by now.

Only a minute and a half passed until the cart moved again: for Crixus, it might as well have been all day. The rough jostle as the wagon drivers, who remained, cracked the whips on the backs of the horses tossed Crixus, but he kept quiet. All around him now he could hear the familiar sounds of the Imperial camps around him. With nothing else to do, he listened as bits of conversation wafted through the seams between the wagon's beams and into his ears.

"...rumors of a Wild Hunt of some kind in the woods near Valenwood," one said. "Heh, should give those layabouts in the border forts a nice distraction."

"If you ask me," another interjected. "We might be moving out there as well. Those border forts couldn't keep out a child, much less anything else."

"Watch it, them words is treason."

"Bah, treason my arse! The Elder Council don't care about the southern border, that's why they've been bowing to the Placators, moving us away from the Dominion borderlands..."

"...screamed like a girl for fifteen minutes," one proudly boasted. "So much for 'strong Nord women', eh?"

"Ha ha ha, nice," another complimented. "So, how was she?"

"Hairy and smelled like fish," the first one grumbled. "Let the boys have her once I was done..."

"...could have been over sooner if they'd let us go north with General Tullius," another stated.

"The Elder Council was too concerned about the southern border," a second replied.

"Bah! They don't care about the southern borders none. Constantly undermanned, short of supplies, and now they're moving more troops to Cheydinhal and Bruma? Elder Council can't be bothered with the North anymore than the White-Gold..."

"...hear of this Wanderer fellow?" asked a fourth. "They say he goes about the woods, helping folk in need."

"You've been hittin' the skooma pretty hard, ain't you?" his comrade replied. "There ain't no such thing."

"Wish there was, though," the former grumbled. "Wish he'd wander over here and conjure us up some women. Damn the Empire and their laws for keepin' women out of the Legion..."

"...not sure I like all these Nords in the Legion now," another muttered. "General Tullius should have sent them back to Skyrim once he was done with them, back where they belong."

"Nords this, Nords that," grumbled his companion. "Fuck the Nords and fuck Skyrim! I've heard far too much about Skyrim for the past two years. Oblivion take Skyrim for all I care! And good riddance if it does! They're nothing but trouble and if it weren't for us, they'd fall into disorder and chaos..."

Inside Crixus groaned, for he heard with his own ears what the common folk, the regulars of the Legion, were saying. However, he believed that any pejorative comment made about Nords was, by nature, warranted and truthful. Furthermore, he wanted to believe that there was nothing wrong with his beloved Empire. They were right in griping against the Nords: he had had quite enough of Nords for one life-time with his two years in Skyrim. Therefore he shut his mind to all the other comments about the state of the Empire and paid heed only to those that attacked the Nords which he hated. Ignoring inconvenient truths was always a fine way to remain obstinately convinced of his rightness and infallibility.

Fifteen minutes passed and then there was not a sound heard but the rumbling of cart-wheels. At last there was a sudden jolt and the cart came to a halt. He heard hooks being set onto the cart, then it suddenly rumbled. How this could be possible was beyond Crixus' mind, though he had little chance to ponder it. He realized that he was being carried high up above the ground and was now dangling in the air in the little cart. He wondered where he was going and if he would be able to escape once the cart halted.

Suddenly there was another jolt and the cart came to a halt. The tarp was removed and he heard voices cry out. Crixus rose up and saw the ledge of a stone wall before him with a small crowd of people waiting for him. Without another word, he leaped off the cart and into the crowd, which dispersed as soon as he stood among them. No one in that crowd spoke to him, and there were many who turned their faces away, covering their faces with their cloaks as if they were Imga who had the displeasure of meeting a human.

Crixus had not long to realize which part of the city he was in. The sun and the sky were covered in a deep reek of black smoke. The air around him was thick and stifling, and the smell of death wafted from every direction. Here in the streets, he saw, as he had seen in the Imperial City, in Solitude and on the road to Skingrad, piles of ashes littered with bones. But lying in the filth and muck of the streets, he also saw bodies left to lie where they had fallen.

Without a second thought, Crixus ran away from the crowds, keeping his head down so as to not be noticed. He ran and ran until he saw a tall structure that seemed to stand out above the ash and smoke: that was the Chapel of Julianos, the Divine of Magic. Into this he went, and found that there were many people, young and old, women and children, huddled inside it, praying alone or in small circles. It angered Crixus inside to see their sincere and earnest faith, even in the face of death and pestilence beyond. It shamed him for he had not such great faith and could not take comfort. For him there was only sadness, regret, shame and anger. Sadness that he had forsaken the path, regret over the choices he had made to leave the path, shame at his own weakness.

But he hardened his heart, turning from the pain and sorrow and filling himself instead with anger. He told himself that he had no need to be sad: the path was well forsaken. Regret, he deemed, was for those indecisive enough to doubt themselves, which he claimed he never did. His shame he lied and said was not shame, but condescending sorrow at the blindness of those around him. This then brought about his anger, anger at those he blamed for not saving the city of Skingrad from this pestilence.

He walked over to the altar, unhindered by those around him. They bore no weapons and could not have stopped him if they knew his full mind. He picked up one of the votive candles and threw it towards a banner that hung from the wall to his left. Picking up two more, he threw them at the nearest things he could find that were flammable, then made his way to the door, which he shut behind him and shoved a broken table leg between the hands. If the chapel burned and there were those left inside, so be it. The only desire in Crixus' heart was to circumvent the Divines in his own way, with no care to who was hurt in the process.

"That's what you deserve," Crixus scorned, gazing up at the tall tower. Without another thought, he turned his back on the Chapel of Julianos and went on his way. He would have to go to the other side of the city, where the bandits lived, in hopes of finding Larth.

* * *

When Skingrad was first built, the Gold Road going between the two districts caused problems during high traffic in the days of the Empire's former glory. To remedy this, skilled artisans of Bruma and Cheydinhal were brought in to construct bridges and walkways to crisscross over the highway and the crowded streets of the city to allow traffic to flow freely. These bridges were maintained throughout the Third Era and the majority of the Fourth Era, though the plague now threatened their usage. With the southern side of Skingrad caught in the throes of the plague, those in the northern side tore down many of the bridges in a vain attempt to keep the plague out of their city. But the breaking of the bridges didn't stop the bandits from taking advantage of both sides.

But for Crixus, he had scaled through dangerous places before all on his own, even as he was now. He stood now upon one of those bridges that once connected the northern half of the city with the southern half; only it had long since been broken and the space between was too far to leap, even for him.

Here Crixus was brought to a stand-still. He was without his bow, ironwood arrows and rope, and he had certainly forgotten if he had ever learned the Whirlwind Sprint Shout in Apocrypha. He distinctly recalled speaking it last night in his visions, but the desire to execute it now was faint. The span was great and he feared that it would be too great, or that he might miss his mark and fall down to his death and crippling into the highway below. Eagerly he looked about, straining to see if any bridge or rope had been left behind that he might use to climb over to the other side. While he was thus looking around, he saw, standing on another broken bridge about fifty feet to his right, a black shape. Suddenly the shape leaped up and, to Crixus' surprise, reached the other side of the bridge in a single bound. Before he could move, the black shape turned towards him and looked at him for a while. As it remained steady, Crixus got a closer look at it - as close as he could see from fifty feet away - and saw that this black figure was exactly the same one who had robbed him before. He called out to the figure, but he made no answer of words. Instead, he drew a bow and pointed it back the way he had come and not towards Crixus. Before Crixus' eyes, he saw the black figure fire an arrow with a rope tied to it, then fastened the rope to his side and disappear. Warily, Crixus made his way back off the bridge and down the street to the other bridge. An arrow with a rope tied to it was stuck in the side of a house on Crixus' side, hanging over the span caused by the broken bridge. He turned towards the other side, where he saw his black-clad quarry wave to him, then vanish through the city streets.

"What are you up to?" Crixus mused.

Curiosity got the best of him and he clung to the rope, going hand over hand until he reached the other side. A little bit farther and suddenly he heard a woman's voice cry out in horror. Crixus crouched low and made his way through the street on the other side of the highway, the sounds of clamoring that he had heard before growing clearer. He could make out the taunting, arrogant drawl of Benjin Surilie as he was torturing his captives.

"Oh yes, circle yourself, good lady," the rich brat taunted. "See if the Divines will help you. Here let me show you something. Crusher, you and the others make sure these two don't leave." There was suddenly a loud cry heard and footsteps, one pair belonging to heavy boots and the other to dragging shoes, could be heard coming close to where Crixus was. Thinking fast, he ducked into the alley between a ruined tower and one of the houses. He looked back out towards the main highway and saw Benjin dragging a young Colovian woman by her hair over to the edge of the bridge.

"Do you see that smoke over there?" he gestured, pointing at the Chapel of Julianos. "Those poor, plagued bastards finally burned that eye-sore down. Do you know why?" The woman shook her head in vain. "Because there are no gods here to help you. The only one you should be begging to for mercy...is me."

Shortly, Benjin came stomping back down the lane, dragging the woman behind her. The footsteps faded, then he heard loud screams coming from further down the main lane that were suddenly stifled. At last Benjin spoke again.

"And what about you, brave sir hedge knight?" he asked. "Your kind think they have the run of the county? You think that you can just go wherever you will, killing whoever you want, just because the Count doesn't care?"

"I serve the people of Skingrad," a man's voice defiantly replied. "I protect them from the likes of you, boy!"

"Oh, listen to you!" Benjin exclaimed, talking as though this were a game and not a matter of life and death. "You know I can't abide rudeness in any fashion! And you're being rude, sir hedge knight!"

"I speak the truth about you," the hedge knight retorted. "Impish, cowardly poultroon! Haven't got the courage to fight me yourself, have you?"

"Oh, when will you idiotic knights get it through your heads?" Benjin asked, after which there was heard a banging noise. "Chivalry is dead! The orders are dead! No one gives two shites about honor and loyalty anymore. It's all about the gold." There was heard the sound of a small hinge being turned, then a trickling of water and the knight groan in disgust.

"Crusher!" Benjin called out. "I believe our dear knight has a dent in his helmet. Be a good lad and fix it, will you?"

But Crixus hadn't been standing still during all of this. Carefully he made his way back out of the alley and down the lane, where he found the group of Benjin's bandits in a city square. In the center, about ten yards away, he could see the crowd of bandits gathered around two prisoners while another were busy with something else in a corner by themselves. Of the two strangers, he saw one was a knight clad head to toe in steel armor with a steel bucket helm upon his head. The giant Crusher was standing before him, squeezing the helmet together with both hands. Crixus heard the poor dying man's last, agonizing screams as hardened steel crushed in his head, then there were no more screams. Blood squirted out of the helmet's visor and the knight with the crushed helmet fell to the ground, dead. After a while, he saw Benjin walk over to the next captive: a bald Nibenay man with darkened skin, clad in fur and animal skins.

"And what about you, beast-lover?" Benjin asked. "Where are your animal gods now? Let the bear and the owl save you from me!"

Crixus made a start: the one about to be offered up on the altar of Benjin's cruelty was none other than Larth. He looked ahead and saw that there was nothing in his way but a few bandit guards, and only straight ground ahead of him. Now would be the best chance to execute his Shout.

"_Wuld...Nah Kest!_" Crixus shouted.

From his hiding place, Crixus burst forward, crashing through the guards and knocking down Benjin. In the confusion that followed, Crixus sprung to his feet and pulled Larth up with him.

"Run, Larth!" he shouted. "Go on, hide yourself! I'll deal with these!"

Larth shook his head, and Crixus, acting on instinct, pushed the man aside as three bandits leaped upon him, holding him down. Once he was in their power, they began punching, kicking and spitting on him as hard and as furiously as they could. He had endured worse during his days in the Legion, but it was not to Crixus' liking to be held down and beaten without a fair fight. He lifted his eyes to see if Larth had escaped, but was struck in the face with something hard and metallic. His left eye swelled shut as his head reeled from the concussion of the blow.

"That's enough," he heard Benjin call out. The young man walked towards Crixus, that hungry, wolfish glare in his eyes and the sadistic smile on his face. He cradled his right hand before Crixus, showing that it only had four fingers on it.

"Back again, I see," he greeted. "I suppose you didn't learn your lesson the first time."

"What's wrong with your finger, boy?" Crixus asked, knowing full well what had happened.

"I hate you," Benjin replied; no explanation, no reasoning, just those three words.

"What the fuck have I ever done to you?" Crixus asked.

Benjin shrugged. "Nothing. I don't hate anyone particularly; they just have to die. My men expect it, Crusher expects it, and, besides, it's fun. But you..." He pointed with his left hand to Crixus. "...I just can't..."

"Put your finger on it?" Crixus retorted.

"Shut the fuck up!" Benjin exploded in an uncharacteristic showing of rage and kicked Crixus in the mouth. Blood filled Crixus mouth as his head leered back from the blow. The young man gasped from the exertion, then calmed himself before turning back to Crixus.

"...I just don't know," he finally answered. "There's something about you that I don't like. The smug grin on your face, that 'I've seen it all' swagger in your voice, your looks, your stance. Something that makes me want to hurt you..." He lowered his voice, his lower jaw quivering as he spoke. To Crixus' disgust, he saw the right hand, the one that was wounded, reach down and seize his groin. "...and go on hurting you...over and over...and over again."

"Is that the only way you get your cock up?" Crixus retorted. "By causing pain to other people?"

"Pick him up, Crusher," Benjin ordered. The huge man picked Crixus up and flung him over his shoulder. Inside Crixus was boiling: no Colovian had ever made him feel so small, impotent and useless. In fact, no race in all of Tamriel, save for the Altmer and the Nords, made him feel like this. And it angered him and caused him to flail and curse and spit try to struggle free: but Crusher's arm held both of Crixus' from moving. The large man and Benjin brought Crixus over to the brink of the broken bridge and halted.

"If I were you, which, thankfully, I'm not," Benjin stated. "I'd pray, to whatever you pray to, that the fall kills me." At that, Crixus felt his beard seized by Benjin, who came within an inch of his face and continued. "Because if you survive, then the pain begins." With a violent tug he pulled out some of Crixus' beard, then cast it to the ground and shouted to his muscle: "Throw him over."

In one instant Crixus was heaved into the air and was now falling. He heard a cry, but for him his only thought was on his predicament. His arms, free at last, began flailing about in vain as he knew that he would hit the ground hard. This was not how Servius Crixus was supposed to die, he knew.

How it happened he never guessed. Perhaps his hand had touched the amulet while he was thrashing and flailing about. Or maybe the powers that controlled the destiny of Servius Crixus had use of him still. Yet again, it may have been the will of the slave of the amulet or the one who owned it last. Nevertheless, out of the air the black horse Shadowmere appeared, catching Crixus on its back as its hooves hit the pavement. Crixus jolted awake as he felt the creature beneath him, then suddenly he heard a voice from above.

"Find that little bald wretch and bring him back alive!" Benjin was ordering. "You, get your bows over here and shoot this arrogant fucker down!"

"Larth!" Crixus shouted. From nearby, he saw the bald man's head appear out of a window in reply to Crixus' call. "Jump!" Crixus brought Shadowmere up along the edge of the wall, right beneath the window where Larth had appeared. The Nibenay man fearfully climbed to the edge of the window, and then leaped. He never reached the horse. At the last minute, a black shadow bounded across the ledge of the window and snatched Larth out of the air. Before Crixus could reply, he saw the one he had followed into the city scaling down the wall of the northern half, Larth in his hands. Upon reaching the ground, he ran off eastward, towards the edge of the city.

"After him!" Crixus shouted, kicking Shadowmere into action.

Shadowmere reared up on its hind legs, as if anticipating the great chase that was to come and roaring defiantly to meet the challenge, then sped off towards the black shape. Crixus knew that this would be over shortly, even without his bow, arrows, knives or the blade of the Nightingales. Shadowmere could outrun any horse - perhaps even Frost, the horse of Louis Letrush which he had stolen and given to Eirik as a peace-offering - and the black-hooded stranger was on foot. But then, as if the very fortune that had been following Crixus since he came to Skingrad had suddenly run dry, the black shape turned a corner behind a tree that had fallen and broken part of the wall of the northern half of the city, and came out again atop a horse: a dappled grey horse with a grey mane and a white tail. On the back of the horse was Larth and, even as Crixus was thus surprised, the grey horse took off eastward.

"Hyah!" Crixus shouted to Shadowmere. "Go! You can catch any horse, my old friend! Let's chase this fucker down!"

Shadowmere put himself forward at his top speed and Crixus held on for dear life. Down the highway they ran, coming at last to the eastern gate of Skingrad, which had been broken down and never repaired. A pile of debris lay in the breech of the gate, as if that could keep anything out of the city now. The grey horse leaped over the debris barrier and, hot on his trail, Shadowmere easily copied the move and followed on behind. They were now on the Gold Road again, which turned suddenly southward to avoid a massive ramp of stone that led up to the massive drawbridge of Castle Skingrad. Their path led underneath this drawbridge and, just beyond, they saw the lines of the Imperial blockade on the eastern side of the city.

The black shape on the grey horse showed no signs of stopping in the face of the blockade, and neither did Crixus. He certainly wanted to rescue Larth, for he could still be of some use to him. With his help, he might be able to cause dissent among the animists and bring order and safety to the wilds of Cyrodiil. In that light, he was essential to Crixus' operations here: a strong, united Cyrodiil would prove his merit before all of the people and, army or no, would give them faith in his abilities as a leader. He _had_ to rescue him.

Suddenly the arrows began to fly towards them from the Imperial blockade. But the same luck that had bound Crixus to the Evergloam was with him this time, eager to be avenged. The arrows whizzed past him and his quarry, none of them finding their mark. They were now leaping over the barricades and galloping through the Imperial camp. The disorganized Legions ran from before them, or fell and were crushed beneath the hooves of their horses. Tents were upturned or torn as the two galloped straight through any obstacle in their path.

At long last, they both broke through the Imperial blockade. The grey horse was still galloping, with a strong lead on Crixus, and Shadowmere was following on behind. In the distance, Crixus could see the wooded valleys and fields of Skingrad, dotted with vineyards, stretching out before them. And beyond them rose a great phalanx of trees, thicker than the forests they had passed through up until this time. Here he saw, for the first time in two decades, the Great Forest of Cyrodiil.

Its splendor did not hold Crixus for long, for his prey was still ahead of him and now the Legion would be behind him. Again he kicked Shadowmere into action, riding hard and fast down the road that wound northward, then turned south again, then leveled out before going steadily northeast. His quarry still had a great deal of a lead on him and, to his surprise, the grey dappled horse was fast enough to keep up with, if not outrun due to the lead, his own horse Shadowmere. He was now bringing his horse up along the northward part of the road, looking down the inclining valley towards where the road turned. His quarry was on the southward bend and, for a moment, seemed to pause. Larth then came flying from the saddle and went crashing to the ground, then the horse galloped on at top speed.

Crixus jolted in the saddle at the sight, then turned Shadowmere off the road to cut a straight bee-line down the hill and towards the southward part of the road where Larth had been discarded. This took a while and, as Crixus noticed, the quarry was now back on the road, galloping away. He would have to be quick if he wanted to catch up to him now. Bringing Shadowmere up to where Larth had fallen, he found the young Nibenay man on his feet, waiting for him.

"Sir!" Larth cried out. "I thought you had forsaken me! Bandits grabbed me from behind you, while we were running through the fields. They took me to the city, tied me up, beat me, threw me in a..."

"It's alright, Larth," Crixus returned. "You're safe now. Go, flee! Go back to the Blackberry Hall, find the others and wait for me there."

"But where are you going?" Larth asked.

"After him!" Crixus replied, pointing towards his quarry. Then without another word, he kicked Shadowmere in the flanks and took off. Larth was safe, so long as he didn't get captured by the Legion. He had his orders and, Crixus trusted, that would be enough for one so simple-minded. But for Crixus, he had to catch the black-shrouded figure. It was unlikely that he still kept Crixus' purse with him; but it was not greed that drove Crixus onward. He wanted to know who it was who had robbed him, rescued him and aided him. But it was also pride that drove him to want to catch the only person who had, without a doubt, outsmarted him at his own game.

Thus began the great pursuit of Servius Crixus against the man in black. Those that came after told stories of that pursuit, with the stories growing bigger and more outlandish with each retelling. Yet the truth of that pursuit and how it ended are strange enough in their own right.

* * *

**(AN: Well, this chapter was certainly long [both in word count and in how long it took for me to get it published]. Mostly because Skingrad is boring to me. I tried to make it less boring, but unless something major happens to get the Count's attention, Crixus will never meet him [this is important] and it will continue to be just another boring Colovian city.)**

**(I've wanted to say this before, but it usually just fell away to other things. I've mentioned "circling oneself" at least once before, and this was done as a sort of sacred gesture, such as the Catholic Church have with "crossing oneself." As the Cross is not known in Tamriel, I chose a circle done in a clockwise gesture, based on the _Elder Kings_ _CK2 _mod's emblem for the Faith of the Eight/Nine. The votive gesture [thumb, index and middle finger held up, other fingers held down] is a pagan fertility symbol: in this case, we can say that the central finger, the phallus [not even kidding here] represents "the Tower", and the other two fingers, the female sex, represent the eight spokes of the solar wheel of Aurbis.)**


	27. The Grey Fox

**(AN: I made the mistake of telling my brother what i had planned for Crixus in this story [i obviously can't tell any of you, since that would spoil what happens]. Upset that i made him an anti-hero and not a perfect Wonder Woman character [as well as that i didn't present his anti-Nord racism in a positive light], he is clamoring that i end the story now so he can write his own sequel, which is essentially _The Odyssey_ [or _Voyage of the Dawn-Treader_ for those who don't know classical literature]. Just between us, i don't think he'll ever write or publish such a story, since he hates fan-fiction and this website and wouldn't be bothered to make a profile to upload his story [kind of like how the Empire can't be bothered with keeping their lands free of their enemy, the Dominion, or of committing their own forces to end the civil war]. So for now, you're stuck with me! [-evil laughter-])**

**(But even if i had no such "mandate", this story isn't going to end until i feel that i've taken it where it needs to go, both character and story-wise. And, in case you were wondering, we're not there, not by a long-shot.)**

* * *

**The Grey Fox**

Neramo had done more in Skingrad than merely attend a banquet with the Surilie Family. He was here on an important mission, and there were many folk about who would be of use to him. Prior to the feast, he spoke to these informants and learned everything he could about his man. The only surprise had been the presence of Cassius Urtius at the Surilie feast. The foolish human must have left Anvil before news of Ondolemar's arrival could have reached him. Now because of that human's impatient failure, _he_ would have to make up for it.

Immediately he left the party, that night of the twenty-fifth of Heartfire, and went to the raven keepers at Blue-Cluster Hall. Being important, if only by human standards, the Surilie Family must needs have ravens for urgent messages. He found one and went on his way composing a letter to send to Ondolemar regarding Urtius' requests. However, with the knowledge that he had and the wisdom to know what would be expected of him, he made one little post-script before sending the letter off.

_Lady Arannelya will be most pleased,_ he thought to himself.

As soon as the letter had been sent away, he began to compose the second one. This would be going straight to the Capital by the swiftest raven. His plan had been very successful and he learned more current news about his man than all of Ondolemar's salvaged reports from the raided and looted Thalmor offices in Skyrim. He tried to be succinct and to the point in this letter, for he knew that his master was an exacting, militaristic woman who had little patience for verbosity in field reports. At length, when he had written down in brief everything he had discovered, he sealed the letter, gave its address, paid the raven tender and watched as the bird was set loose into the night sky.

_Beware, Servius Crixus,_ Neramo thought to himself. _We know who you are._ A smile crept onto his face.

* * *

The day, the twenty-sixth of Heartfire, was coming to a close swiftly. The shadows of evening stretched their arms eastward as the sun sank into the west: overhead a raven cawed as it winged its way eastward. Servius Crixus had been riding all day and was now come to the eaves of the Great Forest and a decision was fast upon him. Being a creature of the shadows and not truly alive, Shadowmere, Crixus deemed, could run all day and night at top speed without tiring. This was very useful to him, as his quarry still had a healthy lead on him; though how any horse could be a match for the great Shadowmere baffled Crixus. Were it up to only that, he could continue riding after the man in black through the Great Forest and into the night.

But it was not anywhere near that simple. Crixus hadn't eaten since last night, and that only very little, and he was weary from the ride thus far. Moreover, it was getting dark and, though the road was not difficult to find in the dark, especially while still on it, he might miss at night if his quarry left the road or doubled back. Though he prided himself on being a skilled tracker, Crixus could not track anything in the dark, especially on cloudy, moonless nights such as they had been of late. He might use his candlelight spell to give him some light for tracking, but its glow would certainly give him away to his quarry. Even so, he did not wish to let his quarry escape, not after he learned his identity. It appeared in his mind that there were three choices ahead for him: to go on riding through the night in search of his quarry, to wait until morning gave him more light for tracking, or to abandon the search altogether. All choices seemed in vain: the likelihood of being outran if he camped out that night was just as strong as losing the trail in the darkness if he carried on.

At last he sighed wearily and made up his mind. He would go into the woods and look until there was no more light for searching, then turn around. It was, after all, just money. Having not ever known the value of hard work and earning money of his own, Crixus did not understand the value of money or the inconvenience of losing it. To him, if he was ever short of money, he could always steal more from those he deemed undeserving, like the poor, lame, blind, widows, orphans and, in Skyrim, the Nords.

For the next hour, Crixus rode through the path that went forth through the forest. The sun lengthened the shadows of the trees before him, until at last the path went so far northeast that the sun was only a distant light behind him and there were darkened tree shadows everywhere. Here and there he would sometimes find an animist totem, made of the skull and rotted fur of some beast that had been sacrificed and eaten by these cultists and its remains set up to scare away travelers. Into his mind flashed disgust that his people, his beloved, superior Colovians, had sunk to Nord-like lows of beast-worship. Larth, therefore, was very important in his mind. Sometimes a simpleton was best sent to change the world in one's name than a wise one in his own name. And when he returned from this hunt, whether victorious or no, he would find a way to impress upon Larth the need to bring his beast-worshiping brothers and sisters back to the light of the Eight.

The Imperial way was, after all, the best and only way.

Yet after an hour of searching, Crixus found no trace of his quarry. There was not enough light to see if the hooves departed or not from the main path, darkness was now upon the forest and all hope of finding his quarry again was gone. With a wearied sigh, Crixus turned Shadowmere away, to follow the Gold Road back to Skingrad. As if hoping in vain that he would see something, he looked back behind him and saw a light in the distance. It was not the light of the sun or of magic illumination, but of a fire, burning brightly but faint, as if coming from far away. He had no hope that he would find his quarry there, but at least the light meant that someone might be there, someone who was ahead of him on the road and, perhaps, had seen his quarry and where he had gone.

Urging Shadowmere on, Crixus assayed to go towards that light. For a time it seemed to gently sway in the darkness, causing the boles of the trees to dance about before him. His heart began to beat faster in his chest the closer he came to that fire, though he could not guess why. Now he was come close enough to the light that he could see that it was indeed the light of fire: a small camp-fire set in a clearing on the side of the road. For a while all seemed still, then suddenly he heard an arrow whistling towards him. But it was dark and the arrow missed him. Then from behind the darkened bole of one of the trees came that same voice, neither male nor female, young nor old, human, elvish nor beast-folk, that he had heard in Skingrad, speaking to him in the night and he quivered at the fearful timbre of that voice, knowing that he had found his quarry again at last.

"Stay away from me!" the voice demanded.

There was heard suddenly a horse neighing and then a galloping sound erupting nearby. Crixus summoned his candlelight spell, aware now that there was no use in hiding. He was this close, he needed light, or he would lose his quarry and never find him again. As the bright flash of the first burst of light shone, Crixus saw the black shape upon his grey dappled horse, galloping onward. Holding the light before him and the reins of Shadowmere in his other hand, Crixus charged after him. The chase was up and a new energy coursed through Crixus' veins like hot soup or cold beer: all weariness fled and he urged Shadowmere onward.

All that night they rode on, the hunter and the hunted, going as fast as their respected mounts could take them. At times Crixus was forced to extinguish his candlelight spell and save his energy, which was spent while riding through the darkness. During such times of darkness, he would pursue his quarry by sound as best he could, though invariably the quarry would gain a lead on him. On and on they rode, until the night was over and the grey dawn was upon them. Crixus was weary, more so than he had ever been on such a hunt, yet he refused to give up now. He could guess that the horse, whether it had some enchantment upon it or whether it had gained strength during the respite earlier that evening, was getting tired: yet the quarry still had a healthy lead over him and he could scarcely see it as a small black spot in the distance.

Then suddenly he heard hooves clip-clopping close at hand. His first instinct was to ignore the newcomer and keep focus fixed on his quarry. Then the soft, even clip-clop turned to a gallop of heavy hooves. Suddenly a massive war-horse clad in steel armor appeared in his path: Shadowmere, suddenly spooked by the appearance of such a heavy horse, halted and reared back on his hind legs, neighing loudly. Atop the rider was a man in heavy steel armor with a close helmet upon his head and a white cloak pinned to his shoulder.

"Get out of the way!" Crixus shouted. "I'm in haste! Now!"

"No one orders a Knight of the White Stallion," a deep, manly voice retorted authoritatively. "Especially a faithless Imperial dog!"

"Imperial dog, am I?" Crixus asked. "You should thank your gods that I'm in haste, or I'd kill you on the spot for that remark!"

The man threw back his helmeted head as far back as he could and laughed. "You? You have neither weapons nor armor, and you challenge a knight?"

"I need no weapon to strike you down," Crixus retorted. "Now get out of my way or see just what weapons I possess!"

"Then I am afraid you must die," the knight replied. At this he brought his horse around, riding forward several strides, then drew a sword from his sheath and turned towards Crixus, sword raised and poised to strike him down. Had Crixus the Nightingale Blade, he might have made quick work of his enemy. But here he was useless in all matters save for one. He was alone, no Nords or, as he believed, gods to judge him, and it was certainly a last resort. He swore angrily as the knight approached, then reached back into his memory, recalling when, at their first meeting, he read Eirik's mind and matched him.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_"

The knight was thrown off his horse and flew through the air, striking the ground on the right-hand side of the road as he fell. The horse was spooked by the noise and the rush of the unrelenting force and ran into the trees. Still angry at being delayed, Crixus remained on his horse and galloped over to the fallen knight.

"I hope you're not dead," Crixus chuckled.

"By Ruptga!" exclaimed the fallen knight. "What are you? A sword-singer? I heard not that such things were taught in Cyrodiil."

"They are not," Crixus replied. "And I am not a sword-singer. I am a servant of the Emperor, and you have delayed my purpose!"

"I care not for who you serve," the knight retorted. "My goal is Leyawiin."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "Perhaps I can give you some greater goal?"

"And what goal could that be?" the knight asked.

"First, tell me your name."

"I am Sir Casmar, Knight of the White Stallion," said the knight in reply.

"Then, Sir Casmar, Knight of the White Stallion," Crixus stated. "Let Servius Crixus, servant of the Emperor, give you this order. I am in haste and must find my quarry ere long, but once my purpose is concluded, I return to the Blackberry Hall west of Skingrad. Meet me there and we will speak again. Perhaps there you may find answers more fitting to your desires?" With that, Crixus kicked Shadowmere and sped off down the Gold Road.

* * *

It was morning now, and in the east the sun was rising over the Valus Mountains, flooding Cyrodiil with its beauty. Displaced Ashlanders living on the mainland took down their netch-leather tents, preparing for another day of long marches and bitter disappointment. To the south, Dunmer slaves were rudely awakened by their Argonian masters to tend the fields they themselves once tended. In the north, a mother and her five month old baby rise with the sun, eager to continue their southward journey. Farmers and villagers along the Nibenay Basin awoke to find their fields burned, their livestock stolen and their loved ones missing. But here in the center of the Heartland, a great and wondrous thing was about to take place: something that had not happened in over twenty years.

As the sun was climbing over the Valus Mountains, Servius Crixus left the Great Forest behind and came upon a wide, sloping valley. Here autumn was still only a dream and the valley was green and fertile, dotted here and there with towns and villages. Farmhouses dotted the landscape here and there, with tall windmills endlessly waving in the wind. In the center of this wide valley was a great lake, wider than any of the lakes Crixus had seen in Hammerfell, Morrowind or Skyrim, and upon that lake was a very large island. In the long uncounted years, when elves still ruled the land, the Ayleids built the White-Gold Tower upon that island in mirror of the order of the heavens: the two moons, Masser and Secunda, and the sun poised around the great Wheel of Aurbis with its eight subdivisions for the eight spokes and the Tower itself in the center.

When man established their empires, this Tower because the central city of their great nations, remaining unchanged throughout the centuries. During the early Fourth Era, in an effort to show their greatness, the potentates who ruled the Empire as well as the Medes attempted to make that great city even greater. Yet the old portion, the White-Gold Tower and its spheres and wheels, the Old City, remained as glorious and splendorous as always, glistening white through sunrise and sunset. Around the high Ayleid walls of the Old City rose, house upon house, palace upon palace, tower upon tower, the New City, sprawling out from the Tower like the accoutrement of some great queen. The entire Isle of Rumare was now one great city stretching out from the Old City, a true capital of an empire of men. Though two great battles and many atrocities had been carried out in those white walls, most of the funds and materials set forth for the so-called Great Recovery went to the rebuilding of the Imperial City.

Thus it was that Servius Crixus saw for the first time, in all of her splendor, the Imperial City, the Capital of Cyrodiil and the Medan Empire of Tamriel. No longer a queen beleaguered by enemies from outside, but one cloaked in majesty. For one moment he forgot his quarry and brought Shadowmere to a halt, tears streaming down from his eyes as they drank in the city's glory, glowing in dawn's beauty.

"I'm home," Crixus muttered to himself as he gazed upon the city.

While he was thus enamored by the Imperial City, he espied, on the road in the valley, riding towards one of the long stone bridges that crossed Lake Rumare to the Imperial City, a rider all in black on a grey horse. Again flashed into his mind his purpose and he kicked Shadowmere into action, gripping the reins as tightly as possible. He rode swift, for the land was sloping here and he had only to go downhill. Instead he kept his eyes on the quarry ahead, eager to be done with the race. For one moment he realized that he was exhausted: his brief moment in which he gazed in wonder upon the Imperial City had allowed his fiery energy, that which comes upon those who heat their blood with battle or travel, to wane out of his body. Now his whole body felt that he hadn't slept all night, but rode fast and hard. He had to find his quarry before tonight or else collapse from exhaustion.

It was almost seven o'clock in the morning when Crixus entered the valley, the road now straight ahead of him. It was going towards the Great City and here he saw that the bridge was not merely a great stone bridge, but part of the city as well. For the wide bridge had houses built upon either side, save for a wide portion in the center, where a wooden drawbridge permitted travel beneath the bridge for ships. There was a great traffic of men, horses, wagons and soldiers upon the bridge and Crixus realized that, in those crowds, he had lost his quarry.

But Crixus had come too far to fail here and now. He pushed his horse forward into the ongoing traffic going towards the City. He looked about this way and that and saw many colorful figures here and about. Country folk in plain clothes, wealthy men in robes, and even wealthier ones with golden studded cloaks. There were many Imperial soldiers marching here and there, as well as Thalmor in black and gold, trotting on horses above the common rabble. Some here were also Bretons, or Nords in fine Colovian garb, and there were more than a few Dunmer. Yet none of these he saw wore the garb of his quarry.

Crixus was now about half-way across the bridge, having come to the wooden drawbridge. Suddenly he saw a black figure burst into a run and the commotion gave him away. There was a twang and the sound of wheels being turned: the bridge was being drawn up and, to his dismay, he was on the one side and his quarry on the other. But now he knew where he was going and kicked Shadowmere on the flanks once again. As the bridge started to pull up, Shadowmere leaped over the growing span. At that moment, Crixus realized that, if he did nothing more, he would surely miss the other side of the drawbridge. He let go of the reins and seized the edge of the drawbridge before it was pulled up, curling his feet back to pull them out of the stirrups. Below Shadowmere crashed into Lake Rumare with a roar, but Crixus cared not. He was on his side and Shadowmere would return to whatever darkness he abode in during the time when he was not used. As the bridge continued to draw up, Crixus saw the black shape turning back to look at him, then turn again and take off running.

"Where do you get your energy, you bastard?" Crixus groaned.

At last the drawbridge was almost vertical, and here Crixus pushed himself over and slid down to the paved stones of the bridge. Once on his feet, he took off at a running pace, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. He was here, only within a few yard's reach. The closer they approached, Crixus was now able to see a little bit more of his quarry. He was surprised that, despite the feats he had seen thus far, his quarry was not as swift running as in riding. Crixus' strides were wider with each step, but this one, though he ran swift, had smaller strides. He deemed that, on a full stomach and a good night's sleep, he could easily have caught up with his quarry in a foot-race.

Suddenly, as if to shatter everything he just now presumed, the quarry made a wide leap up from the bridge onto one of the houses on the left-hand side of the bridge. He was awestruck for a moment, but only until he realized that, on the roof-tops, his quarry would certainly outrun him. There was no traffic to get in the way and slow him down up there. With a groan, Crixus pushed himself onto a cart and leaped up, seizing with his hands onto the edge of a roof on the left. Putting forth once again his effort, Crixus pulled himself onto the roof and took up the chase once again. Now without traffic in their way, Crixus ran as swiftly as he could, leaping from roof to roof after his quarry. They were now coming towards the Great Outer Gate of the New City: as far as Crixus could see, his quarry must needs leap into the water of the lake or back down onto the bridge. The space between the rooftops and the height of the walls around the Great Outer Gate was greater than that of the house before: Crixus believed that he could not perform yet another amazing jump as before.

But, to his surprise and amazement, his quarry made another wide leap, jumping from the top of the roof to the top of the wall. Crixus ran towards the wall and, once it was near, he leaped up and his hands touched stones that jutted out from the outer wall. This wall was not built by the might of the Ayleids, or even the ancient Atmorans, and the stone masonry was inferior, weathered with years and war. Many bricks had lost their mortar and could be used for very small hand-holds and foot-holds. Up this way Crixus climbed, the tips of his feet finding foot-holds as his hands seized each hand-hold he could find. It took him much longer than his quarry, but after a minute, he was now at the top of the wall. Taking only a moment, he saw the quarry still running and sliding down the sloping roof-tops.

Now they ran, like two thieves out of a bedtime story book, from roof-top to roof-top, sometimes scrambling, sometimes leaping, and other times sliding down the slope of one house, palace or villa to leap onto the rooftop of another. On and on they sped, each trying to outdo the other. Behind them the guards on the walls now saw them and were calling for their men to catch them as they sped past each post. But ever were the two figures, clad in black, the faster.

Suddenly, as Crixus was coming to the edge of one building, he saw his quarry, leaping through the air in an impossible leap, towards the next one. But this time fate played a cruel trick on him. His boots caught on an old tile, which slid as soon as his weight fell on it, and sent him sliding down the sloping hill towards the city streets, three stories down below. Crixus leaped over to the next building and, just in the nick of time, managed to seize his quarry by the hand just as he was about to fall off the roof. Crixus himself lay on the bottom of the sloping roof, trying to muster all of his strength, forged during his time in the Red Legions, to keep from letting his quarry fall to his death.

"Let me go!" the strange voice demanded.

"Fall to your death?" Crixus gasped, thoroughly out of breath. "Not after I get some answers out of you."

"You have no choice!" the strange voice replied. "The guards will find us, they'll throw us both in prison, and then what?"

"Nobody's going to prison," Crixus retorted.

"We're up here, where we don't belong," the black-clad one stated. "And do you not see my mask? I'm an outlaw."

Crixus looked at the black-clad man's mask: his hood had fallen back, revealing a grey cowl that appeared to be stitched together from pieces of fabric of different shades of grey. Where the eyes were there sat two black holes, and upon the forehead in a single, vertical line extending from the bridge of the nose up to the crown of the head, blue runes in the Daedric script were written.

"Look," Crixus groaned. "I saved your life, that puts you in my debt. Maybe you can answer my questions after I pull you up here?"

"Let me go," the cowled one repeated.

"You'll die!"

"Look below us!" urged the cowled man in black. Crixus looked down and saw a cart full of hay coming along below them. The cowled man looked back up at Crixus. "Go ahead, I'll be fi..."

But what the cowled man did not anticipate was exactly what Crixus did. Instead of letting go of the cowled man's gloved hand, Crixus pushed himself off of the house, falling down with the cowled man into the hay cart. The way they fell, Crixus was on top of the cowled man, his weight pinning him down as he kept one hand on the cowled man's right hand. To his surprise, though the cowled man put up a fight, he seemed to be very small-framed and slender. While thus in the hay, Crixus pulled off the cowl and gasped.

The cowled 'man' in black was in fact a woman, but not just any woman. Her raven black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin made Crixus start and forget to draw breath. For a moment, he thought as if it was his Colovian goddess come home to him. The resemblance was uncanny: the same color of hair, the contours of the cheek-bones, the fullness of the lips, even the shape of the eyes.

"Who are you?" Crixus gasped.

"I should really be asking _you_ that question," she spoke, and her voice was the voice of a Colovian woman, with a drawl similar to his own, only less provincial. "You kept showing up in Skingrad, then you chased me all the way to the Capital! Maybe I should call the guards and arrest you for stalking me?"

"Didn't you say you were a wanted man...woman?" Crixus chuckled.

"Wouldn't stop me, though," she retorted, though there was something playful about her voice that made Crixus unsure whether she was serious with her threat or not.

"Look," he said. "This is not the best place for a meeting. Do you have any place we can go to and be...well, more alone?"

"Just met me and already you want to fuck me?" the woman asked. "Wherever are your manners?"

"I meant talk!" Crixus said a little too firmly, the color rising in his cheeks. "This is hardly the place to talk, especially about the things we'll talk about."

"There's a little one room house," she replied. "It's next to the New Vivec corner-club on the eastern side of the New City, the Shield Quarter. Meet me there."

"What, you won't show me the way?" Crixus asked. "What if I get lost?"

"Oh, I reckon you won't get lost," she returned, pursing her lips into a pout. "After all, I certainly wasn't able to lose you, was I? Now go."

Crixus climbed out of the cart, much to the surprise of those pedestrians around it and the consternation of the boy driving the cart. As Crixus wiped the flecks of straw and hay off his clothes, he saw the woman in black leap out from the other side, then disappear into the crowd. For a moment Crixus considered chasing after her: he still had so many unanswered questions about this woman. But then he swayed as he stood and reached out one hand to steady himself against the outer wall of some house. He was too weary to continue the pursuit just now. With a sigh, he decided to accept her suggestion and meet her at the little house in the Shield Quarter.

* * *

Crixus found respite at the Hestra Tavern located in the northwestern corner of the Cerunian, where he rested, drank a little mead and ate enough food to keep from passing out. In the stuffy, warm tavern hall, he was like to faint from exhaustion and the comfortable atmosphere in which he found himself. To stave off weariness, he spoke much to the bar-maid, a pretty young thing named Camilla. She knew as much as anyone about the layout of the New City and was able to provide him information that kept him awake and attentive, though certainly she didn't like being used solely by this one customer.

The New City was the blanket name for the many districts that surrounded the Old City in the Imperial Capital. The bridge laden with houses that he had come across was the Weye Promenade, which led to the West Gate. Here a grand, arched gallery led from the West Gate into the Old Gate and the Medan Plaza within the high walls. The Medan Plaza was a new name for an old portion of the Old City that, at one point, had been called the Talos Plaza. But even the White-Gold Concordant could be felt here in the heart of the Imperial City. North and west of the Grand Gallery, the entrance to the Medan Plaza, was the Cerunian District. This held many houses and businesses of the citizens of the Empire too poor for the Old City or the Berth of Strife, yet rich enough to stay in the city. Most people here, said Camilla, were well off for their own stations, but certainly not as wealthy as some others.

In the northern center of the island was the Walled Approach. It was so named because it was walled off from the other districts with high stone walls and opened upon the Elven Gardens of the Old City. Few were allowed inside the Walled Approach, and so Camilla's knowledge of the place was scarce, though she believed Elves lived there. For the average person, to get to the northeastern corner of the city, one must go beneath the great tunnel that passed underneath the Walled Approach: two stories high and wide enough for twenty men to walk through it abreast. That tunnel emptied out into the Shield Quarter. That name was a great misnomer for many in the Imperial City. Aside from having the Bastion, the guard barracks and dungeon of the Imperial City, at its northeastern corner, the Shield Quarter had no such admirable qualities. Lawlessness frequently broke out among the district's many Dunmer inhabitants, displaced refugees who, like the Dunmer living in Skyrim, had fled their country in the wake of slave revolt and mountain eruption, only to become permanent settlers in the lands freely given to them by their benefactors. Many of these Dunmer living here were from Cheydinhal, where such lawless behavior was not strange or foreign. Yet many were forced to do business there, for the Shield Quarter housed offices of the Shield of Hlaalu and the quickest route from the New City into the Market District of the Old City.

On the eastern side of the city stood the Watershed, another place for poor, displaced people who had, twenty years ago, been living in peace in the countryside. Not to be confused with the Waterfront, the Docking crescent on the southwestern side of the city, the Watershed held many houses in such poor, dilapidated state that even the people of Bravil and Riften would not dare live in these houses. Yet the houses steadily became nicer and in better repair the closer one came to the Berth of Strife. Once again, this name was considered to be a misnomer by many in Cyrodiil. The name was an old one for, at the heart of the Berth of Strife, lay the Arcane University, where the Synod and the College of Whispers convened during the Rumaran Council and, at other times, continued their power struggle. Yet those who lived in the Berth of Strife prospered and were considered the wealthiest citizens in the Capital not living in the Old City.

Wedged between the Berth of Strife and the southern end of the Cerunian District was the Ocato Plaza. Named for the Chancellor of the Elder Council that took power after the Septims, presumably, died out during the Oblivion Crisis, the shops and markets here, leading from the Waterfront to the Temple District in the Old City, were some of the finest in all of the Empire, if not all of Tamriel. The goods sold here came from all corners of the Empire, and even from its less than friendly neighbors such as the Khajiit of Elsweyr, the Dominion, Black Marsh and even Blacklight in mainland Morrowind. Wealth flourished here, under the auspicious eyes of the Temple of the One within the Old City.

Crixus noted that here Camilla seemed to pause and speak in excited tones. Apparently the Temple of the One was a very old structure of the Reman Emperors. The final confrontation of the Oblivion Crisis took place there, and ever since the Temple became a place for pilgrims to visit where the Divines were proven to be active and protective of the mortal races. During the Great War, the Dominion had tried to tear down the Temple but found that their efforts were all in vain. To that end, a great dome was built on top of it and the Temple sealed off from all pilgrims.

"It's such a shame, really," she sighed. "I never saw the Temple before, now it seems I won't ever get to see it. Would have liked to see it before I died. The stories about it are fabulous. Me grand-da was moved to tears when he made the pilgrimage over sixty years ago, though he never told me what he saw that got him so broken up."

Crixus sighed, then drained his mug, which he paid for with money stolen under the bar from a patron to his right. Before the other patron could realize he'd been robbed, Crixus left the Hestra Tavern and began to make his way eastward through the narrow, crowded streets of the Cerunian District. Ever and anon, in the eastern horizon of the city, the Walled Approach could be seen, dominating the sky-line, towering over all the buildings in the Cerunian District. Crixus had seen the Walled Approach from the tops of the roofs while pursuing his woman in black, but only now had he realized just how massive it really was. Yet that was not his destination.

The morning was still young by the time Crixus reached the great tunnel that went underneath the Walled Approach and into the Shield Quarter. True, the Colovian customs of drinking - set down by elves first, of course - held that drinking alcohol earlier than a certain hour was looked down upon, but in this matter Crixus disagreed. The irritability and anger he brought forth upon his comrades of late was partly because of his lack of drink. However, though he had lacked strong drink for a while, he hadn't over-indulged and chose instead to remain sober for his meeting.

Underneath the arch he went, coming to the Shield Quarter. If he thought that the Cerunian District was crowded, he was not prepared for this. The western half was filled with small houses, many of them three stories or more tall. The streets were filled with small vendors and market stands, increasing the clutter of the streets. There were many Dunmer here, true, but not as many as Crixus had been led to believe. He asked around for the New Vivec corner-club, and was given rather unsavory looks. After the third time asking and the eighth or so person to glare at him, Crixus assumed that the New Vivec corner-club had a poor reputation. True to his guess, the closer he got down the way the people of the Shield Quarter had directed him, the worse it seemed to get. Houses had boarded up windows, filth lined the sides of the street, cracks lined each wall, and dark faces with red eyes glared contemptuously at him. They looked as though they saw someone trespassing on their land and had half a mind to force them out.

Crixus found the New Vivec corner-club in a filthy, run-down side of the Shield Quarter that was somewhere between the Walled Approach and the Imperial Bastion. Near at hand was a large collection of houses bunched together, many of them on top of each other, like the hexagonal sections of a honeycomb. Near the bottom floor Crixus found one small house: on the door was a little marking, such as Crixus had seen before in Skyrim. A small triangle with a circle inside it. Here he knocked at the door: there was no immediate answer. Then he lifted up his hand to knock again and he heard many heavy locks being undone on the other side. After at least six or so locks had been removed, the little wooden door was pulled back and Crixus saw the dark-haired woman standing in the doorway.

"There you are," she greeted. "Won't you come inside?"

Crixus walked into the little house. It was bare save for a bed made of two blankets in one corner and a few small oddments here and there. Once Crixus stepped inside, the woman closed the door and locked it behind them.

"You seem quite safe having me here," Crixus stated.

"Should I not be?" she asked.

"It's usually women don't take kindly to a stranger suddenly coming into their house, especially alone," stated Crixus.

"Well, as you said, I do owe you after you rescued me from the rooftops," the woman replied. "As for any fears, the one who should be afraid is you."

"Me?" Crixus asked.

"You're unarmed," the woman stated. "I'm not. With those conditions, only a fool would try to take advantage of me."

"You're armed?" Crixus asked. "Gods, how did you manage to sneak weapons under the nose of the city guards?"

The woman chuckled. "That is the least of my offenses against the law."

"You're certainly forthcoming about your criminal behavior," Crixus chuckled. "Perhaps this is a good sign?"

"Is it, now?" she retorted.

"If you're this forthright," Crixus wondered aloud. "Perhaps you will be willing to answer a few questions of my own."

"Perhaps," she replied, coyly smiling at him. "But I have some questions for you to answer first. Why were you following me? Are you with the Guild?"

"Which Guild?" Crixus asked.

"The Thieves Guild," the woman clarified.

"What if I am?" Crixus answered with a question. "What then?"

"We'll see, won't we?" she asked. "Now, then, are you with the Guild or not?"

"That's tough to answer," Crixus replied.

"How is that difficult?" she asked. "All you have to say is 'yes' or 'no.'"

"I was inducted into the Guild," Crixus stated. "But I'm not here on Guild business: certainly it was not their business that I pursue you, if that's what you were wondering. Now it's my turn to ask the questions. What is your name?"

"Why do I need a name?" she asked, suddenly becoming very close and hanging her head in discomfort.

"It would be nice to call you something," Crixus stated.

"You may call me Aelina," she replied. "As for a surname, you may not have that at this time, for, as it turns out, I have no surname."

"You don't?" Crixus asked. "Are you a...well, you know..."

"Tch, no, I'm not a bastard," Aelina groaned.

"You're not?" Crixus queried. The thought suddenly occured to him that Aelina seemed young: too young, in fact, to be his goddess. Perhaps she was her daughter?

"Why does that surprise you?" she asked. "And what about my family is so interesting?"

"Oh, nothing," Crixus sighed. "Not yet, at least. I suppose you'll be wanting to hear about my name as well. Call me Crixus."

"Given name?"

"Surname," said Crixus. "I only let family members or those I trust call me by my given name."

"Fair enough," Aelina nodded. "Now, then, you've asked your question, now I ask mine. How come I've never heard of you if you're in the Guild?"

"I was inducted into the Skyrim chapter of the Thieves Guild," Crixus stated. "I've yet to meet members of the Cyrodilic chapter."

"You're better off not meeting them at all," Aelina answered. "I've met them before and they're as bad as the Skyrim Guild, even worse. Stealing from anyone, making deals with the Placators, the Thalmor, House Sarys, the Merchants Guild. They're little better than whores."

"So what are you then?" Crixus asked. "Some kind of free-lance thief?"

"Didn't you see the mask?" Aelina queried. At that, she walked over to the bed and removed from between the blankets the grey cowl, which she presented to Crixus as she rose up and turned around.

"I am the Grey Fox," she stated.

Crixus' eyes swelled at the news and he took a step back. Of the many tales he had read while growing up, the Thieves Guild and its elusive member, the Grey Fox, were such stories. Furthermore, into his mind came the memory of what Thwyndilion had told him weeks ago in Kvatch. She had the Grey Cowl, but then...

"Where did you get that?" Crixus asked.

"Stole it from the Lord Mayor of Kvatch's office," Aelina stated. "It wasn't doing anything in her presence, just collecting dust on that statuette of hers. I would put it to good use."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "And do you plan on giving it back to her?"

"Never," Aelina replied. "That the Thieves Guild are doing business with the likes of her prove how far they've fallen here in Cyrodiil. And here in the Capital, I've seen worse things than one Thalmor agent controlling both the Merchants Guild and the Thieves Guild."

"So you're going up against the Thieves Guild?" Crixus asked. "Why? What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything," Aelina retorted. "I just want to have some fun."

"Fun, huh?" Crixus asked. "Is that what you were doing when you stole my purse?"

"Beg pardon?"

"A few days ago, remember?" Crixus asked. "Skingrad? You freed me from those bandits, then you stole my purse. Or was that you?"

"I don't remember that," Aelina returned. "I've been to Skingrad before, mostly to rob from the bandits. They steal from the people of Skingrad, who are already suffering from plague and quarantine. But I don't remember..."

"Don't lie to me!" Crixus interjected.

"Don't you raise your voice at me," Aelina stated. Her voice was not raised, but there was a definite threatening tone to what she said. "These walls are not very thick, and word may travel if spoken loudly."

"Still," Crixus retorted, teeth gritted. "Don't you play games with me. I know you stole from me."

"And why should you have your money back?" Aelina asked.

"Because it's _my_ money!" Crixus retorted.

"But you're in the Thieves Guild," Aelina stated. "You steal on a regular basis."

"So?" Crixus asked.

"So that money in your bag?" she asked. "How much of it was stolen and from whom?"

"Are you getting somewhere?" Crixus asked.

"What right do you have to complain about a thief," Aelina asked. "When you are a thief yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus retorted, using his usual routine. "You know nothing." Suddenly a knife was drawn and thrust to his throat.

"Do I, now?" she asked, an angry fire smoldering in her eyes. "I may know nothing about you, Crixus, but I do know about thieves, having been around them. Now I don't usually resort to violence, unless there is no other way, but I won't take you shouting down to me like some kind of drunken, arrogant sod who can't defend himself with anything more than harsh words!"

"And why should I obey your demands?" Crixus retorted.

"I'm afraid you have little choice in the matter," Aelina said with a grin. "The door is locked and bolted, there are no windows, and you have no weapon."

Realizing this, Crixus grinned and held up his hands in a gesture of compliance. Aelina lowered her knife.

"What's got you so riled up?" Crixus asked.

"Your attitude," she replied. "I'm doing more than I can afford, letting you come in here, talk to me, hear my secrets."

"But you haven't really told me anything."

"And I won't be walked over!" she retorted firmly, annoyed at his interruption. "Not by you, and not by anyone."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Crixus stated, using one of his favorite tactics.

"'You know nothing, shut the fuck up,'" Aelina retorted, mimicking his drawl very well. "Don't treat me like a fool, or we'll be right back where we were before, with my knife at your throat."

"Alright!" Crixus exclaimed, backed into a corner in more ways than one. "I won't say anything! Gods, why are you so touchy?" The word in his mind was 'b*tchy', but he thought better of it, especially since here was someone who wasn't going to take shit from him. Though the fact that she was armed and he wasn't certainly was involved.

"I have to command the respect of the people I meet," Aelina retorted. "The Grey Fox is something of a legend, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. People think they can abuse my generosity to get a few extra septims in their pockets: and that's just the beginning. It's a dangerous neighborhood, the Shield Quarter. I've been fighting since I first came here, just to survive."

"So you'll fight off anyone who calls you a name or insults you?" Crixus asked without even a shred of irony. "Might as well be a Nord."

"It might as well be Skyrim, for all that the Shield Quarter is dangerous," Aelina replied. "The Dunmer get away with everything around here. The guards avoid the city, for fear that, if they intervene, the Dunmer may riot. There's already rumors of rioting destroying the eastern half of Cheydinhal, and that's less than a day's journey from here."

"Still doesn't answer my question," Crixus asked. "Are you _really_ that insecure of your own strength that you'll pick a fight with anyone who taunts you, insults you or calls you a name?"

"Dammit, I deserve their respect!" Aelina retorted, anger rising in her voice. "I help their children, their wives, their families, _and_ I'm of r..." At that she paused, swallowed, then cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice. You are, still, a guest in my home, such as it is." She chuckled, gesturing to the bare room about them.

"It's alright," Crixus returned. "I've been known to be a troublesome person."

"Did it ever occur to you to try and _not_ be troublesome?" she asked.

"No more," Crixus returned. "Than an Argonian can shed his scales, or a Khajiit lose his fur, or a Dunmer turn into an Altmer, or that a Nord can be civilized."

"You certainly don't think much about Nords, I see," Aelina noted.

"I've been to Skyrim," Crixus retorted. "I've lived among them for longer than any self-respecting Imperial ever should. And do you know why I hate them?"

"Why?"

"Have you ever heard of what's common knowledge about Nords?" Crixus asked. "How they're violent brutes, living in thatched barns or in caves filled to the walls in their own shite, eating raw meat, dressed in troll bones, drinking mead like water, killing whoever they like, fucking anything with a hole, even close kin, afraid of anything different from themselves? Well, in all my time in Skyrim, I never met a single Nord that didn't fit that type."

"So, naturally," Aelina retorted. "They're all bad?"

"Yes," Crixus replied.

"And anything we do against them is justified for the reasons you just said?" Aelina asked again.

"Exactly."

"You sound like the Dunmer living here in the Shield Quarter," she muttered. "Always talking about Skyrim as if it's a place worse than any corner of Oblivion, and the Nords worse than the Dominion."

"Maybe if we all were a little like the Dunmer," Crixus retorted. "The Nords wouldn't be allowed to treat others the way they do and the Empire would be a safer place."

"Yes, indeed," Aelina replied sarcastically. "Legalized assassin guilds, the House of Nobles turning the streets into a blood-bath over petty rivalry with each other, maybe even enslave the Nords, since they're obviously inferior to us cultured and civilized Colovians and Nibenese."

"Don't get cute with me," Crixus stated. "You know what I meant."

"Do I, now?" Aelina asked. "And what would happen then, the Empire filling a race of barbaric slaves with hatred for their masters? Would we not have another slave revolt on our hands, such as the Dunmer had with the Argonians in the early years of this Era?"

Crixus' eyebrows rose in surprise. "You're learned?" He shifted the conversation to her, hoping to ignore the fact that, inside, he had no response to her question.

"Yes, I am," Aelina replied, noticing his approving glance and smiling in return. "My father spared no expense in having me educated. I can read and write in our language and know quite a bit of our own history."

"Who was your father?" Crixus asked.

There was a long, poignant silence as Aelina turned away to look at the floor, seeming reluctant to speak. Finally she said: "A merchant, living in Bravil. He was wealthy enough from his dealings to afford me a proper education."

"And your mother?" Crixus asked, more interested in hearing this answer. "Who was your mother?"

"Look, it's all very dull and uninteresting," Aelina returned, turning back to face Crixus. "My mother died last year, and then, sometime around Rain's Hand, I left home. Life as a merchant's daughter was not what I had in mind."

"So you became a chivalrous thief?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, I did," Aelina replied. "Now, then, I think it's time we..." She was interrupted by shouting in the streets. She walked to the door and looked out the small peep-hole in it.

"Dammit," she groaned.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"A riot's broken out," she said. "The streets won't be safe to walk, even in daylight."

"So what do we do?" Crixus asked.

Aelina sighed. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay here until the rioters get what they want or disperse."

"Stay here?" Crixus asked. "In your house?"

"I don't like it either," she groaned. "But it's too dangerous to go out during a riot. Even I wouldn't attempt it." She sighed and walked over to the bed, sitting down upon it.

"How long do these last?" Crixus asked.

"Who knows?" she replied. "Maybe just an afternoon, could be a day or two. In Cheydinhal, the riots haven't stopped since...gods, I can't remember when. News of the riots reached me about five months ago, but I don't recall when they actually began." She looked up and saw Crixus was still standing. "Come on, have a seat." She patted the floor before her. "We're going to be here for a long time, might as well get comfortable."

* * *

**(AN: Omg, yes! I just threw ALL the things out there in this chapter! Who is the young woman? Is she the new Grey Fox? Is she Crixus' "Colovian goddess?" And just how much about Crixus did Neramo send to Lady Arannelya? Of course, as has pretty much become a cliche for me, I described the Capital City very reminiscent to Constantinople [lol, basically any time I have a big-ass medieval city in my story, it's Constantinople, whether it's the Imperial Capital, Osgiliath or Umbar.])  
**

**(Aelina is a new character [obviously], though I have some designs for her later on. Strangely enough, i found inspiration for her character from the strangest source yet, one that i thought i had left behind years ago: _Wicked_ the book. In that she's a single woman living in the bad part of a big, capital city, with a mission of her own against an evil older woman, then the male character arrives and...well, spoilers. It was just so odd, because i left _Wicked_ behind years ago.)**


	28. Charmed Lives

**(AN: Here we see part of Crixus' designs come to fruition, as well as other things. Of course i have no idea if i'm doing anything right or not, or if any one of you is interested in any of these characters aside from only Crixus. No words about Babbette or what she wanted Crixus to do, or of Crixus' companions, so i don't know if this will be of any meaning to any of you. For me, the best way to see what kind of meaning something has is to show how the characters react to it, but Crixus is desensitized and finds a lot of bad things acceptable. So i don't know)**

* * *

**Charmed Lives**

The twenty-seventh of Heartfire was winding away in Skingrad and the afternoons were growing colder. Outside of the Blackberry Hall, Petruvius, Lethia and Viator sat on the porch of the hall, which offered a wide view of the vineyards southward. Petruvius had in his hands a bag of septims, which he was weighing in his hand, a pensive look on his face as if he was deciding now what to do with it. Lethia's hood was pulled back only insomuch that her blue eyes were visible, and these were turned to Petruvius. During their captivity by the Synod, she had found him to be of excellent company. Unlike Crixus, he didn't threaten violence against her or rail if she called him 'slave.' He was, to the Snow Elf, intriguing.

Viator, on the other hand, was exactly like Crixus, if not worse, and she paid him no mind. He was seated at the far corner of their little group, polishing the breast-plate of his armor. Today was a boring autumn's day with little for them to do, but not nothing at all. Before them Boderic was walking among the groups of refugees, offering them food that he had purchased and helping them where he could. In between his polishing, Viator would look up at the knight, roll his eyes, then return to his polishing.

"Fifty septims," Petruvius muttered. "That's all we have. We might be able to make due with that, but it will not last long. We need to have a focus, more than just our ultimate goal. Getting there will be impossible on only fifty septims."

"You always think of your lord and his obligations and duties," Lethia muttered. "But he is not here."

"And good riddance," added Viator.

"Can you not think of something else in the mean time?" Lethia queried, ignoring Viator's addendum.

"No," Petruvius shook his head. "I've known Crixus for as long as...well, anyone besides his friends in the Legion. He often went away on secret missions without telling anyone where he was going or how long he'd been away. But he would return, in some form or another. And when he does, he will find all in readiness for whatever he needs."

"Nevertheless," Lethia stated. "You've proven yourself a faithful and trustworthy servant. Surely you can ask for some time alone for yourself?"

"Plenty of time to rest when it's dark," Petruvius added.

"Why do you do it, though?" Viator interjected. "Put up with that arse-wipe and his horse-shite. Any sane person would have left him long before this."

Lethia grinned, turning to Viator. "Then why are you still here, slave?"

"Look at you two," Viator grumbled. "A frail elf and a serving man." He then looked out towards where Boderic was giving food to a little child who had wandered away from her family. "Not to mention a holier-than-thou fool who would give away his dying breath to help some sorry bastard who'd waste his gift, and that idiot beast-fucker."

"What about us?" Petruvius asked.

"You wouldn't survive a day on your own," Viator explained. "I'm keeping your arses safe until Crixus comes back."

"And then?" quoth Lethia.

"I don't know," Viator grumbled. "I suppose I'll just take it as it comes."

Lethia then watched as Boderic led the little lost girl to her parents, then once more brought out the food he had purchased. She was in silent thought for a moment, then noticed that he paused and looked southward. With her hand, she gently touched Petruvius' shoulder and gestured for him to look thither. They could see nothing as it was, but now Boderic was walking back towards the stables. Curiosity got the best of the two of them and Lethia and Petruvius rose up and ran to the stables.

"What the fuck is it now?" groaned Viator. Being as he was, he would have to run back to their room to leave his breast-plate with the rest of his armor before joining them, but that he was doing.

Meanwhile, the others caught up to Boderic, saddling his charger.

"What is it?" Petruvius asked. "Did you see Crixus?"

"No, good servant," Boderic replied. "I haven't, but I did see another of our party. The bald man Larth. I saw him coming up to this place through one of the fields, then he collapsed. He should see to him at once!"

"Then I'm going with you," Petruvius added, turning to ready one of the other horses. "Lethia, are you coming?"

"It will be good to be out and about," she stated. "Better than listening to Viator complain about everything."

They saddled up the two horses they had left and mounted up, with Viator on his horse alone and Petruvius and Lethia sharing one. Then they hurried across the fields after Boderic, who, by the time they reached the stables, had already departed. When they finally caught up with him, he had dismounted from his horse, which was waiting patiently in the middle of one of the vineyards. The young knight was lifting up the sun-kissed, fur-clad body of a young man bald of head.

"You two!" Boderic greeted as Petruvius and Lethia appeared first. "Help me get him up onto my horse. This poor man is heavier than he looks."

"What's wrong with him?" Petruvius asked, dismounting immediately. "Is he dead?"

"Exhausted, I think," Boderic replied. "But he won't survive long out here on his own. Let's get him back to the hall."

Petruvius helped Boderic heave Larth onto Boderic's horse, while Lethia and, later, Viator watched and did nothing. Viator neither offered to help nor moved to help of his own accord because that was his nature. Lethia, on the other hand, aside from her authoritative and aloof demeanor, found herself remaining in the background, watching as things occurred around her and pondering them in her heart.

For a heart she had, both in the physical sense and the spiritual sense. It had been many weeks since she last received a vision and her faith was being put to the test. It seemed that she was abandoned with someone who had no love, respect or even fear of the Divines, assaulted her or threatened to do so if she contradicted or challenged him in any way, and seemed to be moving through this strange new land with no direction or focus. She dare not leave him, for she saw how the animists looked at her when they realized she was an elf and prepared her to be sacrificed with Crixus. If this was only the least of the troubles she would face here, then the rest would be much worse.

As for herself, she was not very fond of wandering from one place to another, living off the charity of those she esteemed to be beneath her. Though there had been a fair deal of moving from one place to another in the caves beneath the earth, they did not wander consistently and often stayed in one cavern for a long while. As she was a sorceress, she was accustomed to those who revered her to give her offerings of food, because she knew that what they did was a sign of worship. They could not survive long without her, this they knew, and that was exactly how she liked it. Now she was in quite a different situation, around people who could survive for themselves, and being the one who could not, dependent on their good pleasure or displeasure. Therefore she chose this path of watchfulness over talkativeness.

And it was leading her somewhere, all of this watching and observing of the people of Cyrodiil.

* * *

On that self-same day, in the Imperial City, Crixus and Aelina were in her little one room house, hiding from the riots going on outside. Aelina told Crixus in a hushed voice near the start of their quiet vigil that they were not to make too much noise, especially in the way of shouting. If those outside heard the noise, they might break in. For how long they remained thus, seated opposite each other in silence, Crixus could not guess. Finally, at one point, Crixus groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Are you alright?" Aelina whispered.

"I haven't slept in gods know how long," Crixus groaned.

"You shouldn't have pursued me, then," Aelina returned. "I would have come back to Skingrad eventually. I always enjoy foiling the plans of that little brat Benjin the Brash."

"Benjin Surilie you mean?" Crixus asked. Aelina nodded. "What the fuck is wrong with him? He keeps saying 'I hate you' every time I have the misfortune of running into him. I didn't do anything to piss him off."

"There's something seriously wrong with that young man," Aelina noted, her voice uncharacteristically grim and serious. "He rules over the people still trapped inside Skingrad through fear and intimidation. He orders them to pay heavy taxes to him, and when they can't, he kidnaps whoever he can find - young, old, women, children - and puts them to death in whatever cruel way he fancies. Sometimes a quick, merciful death, but other times he makes them suffer."

"I'm guessing it was you who freed me the first time, then," Crixus assumed. "I must say, though, that was a spectacular shot you made, shooting off that bastard's finger."

"I wish I could have shot off more than just that," Aelina replied. "No child should have to suffer having him as their father."

"But still," Crixus stated. "What a shot! And that coming from the best archer in all of Cyrodiil, if not all of Tamriel."

"Really?" Aelina asked, turning towards Crixus. There was a cheeky grin on her face and a look of amusement in her eyes. "And do you tell yourself this or have other people told you this before?"

"I'm not some child who's afraid of his own damn shadow, if that's what you mean," Crixus returned. His voice was rising and Aelina gently shushed him. In any other circumstances, Crixus would have exploded on her. But she was good company: the only company that did not make him overly annoyed, angry or uncomfortable. "I'm confident in my skill and have never been out-shot."

"Interesting," Aelina returned. "Well, if that's all it takes to become the greatest archer in all of Tamriel, then I would venture that I am the greatest archer in all of Tamriel."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "Can you shoot a bird out of the air with an arrow to the eye?"

"Never had the need to do so," Aelina stated. "Then again, I'm not like Benjin and his rogues or those animal worshipers, snaring or shooting down messenger ravens."

"What is wrong with him?" Crixus asked.

"I don't know," Aelina replied. "I don't live in Skingrad, so I don't hear all the rumors about him. They range in incredulity, from him being touched by Sheogorath, dropped on the head by his nurse when he was a baby, that he was disowned and disinherited: I even heard one that he's impotent and that's why he does this!" She chuckled and Crixus shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Though there is one rumor that I have found to be true."

"Which one is that?" Crixus asked.

"The one that he only wears one shoe," Aelina stated. "Surely you must have seen him, standing there all tall and proud, with one boot on and the other foot all grimy and filthy."

"No," Crixus sarcastically replied. "I never had the pleasure of looking at the cunt's feet."

"Why he does it no one truly knows," Aelina replied. "Some say it's because he's touched in the head by Sheogorath." She shook her head, a smile coming to her face and a quiet laugh on her lips.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"It's funny, though," Aelina said. "Because at that point people often decry 'the poor young man!', as if he were an innocent victim in a cruel game ran by others." She chuckled. "I only laugh because those people have never met him before and don't know what a vile little bastard he is."

"Wait a minute, poor _young_ man?" Crixus asked. "Just how young is he?"

"Old enough to be responsible for his own actions," Aelina returned. "And to know better."

"But, well, he doesn't look very old," Crixus added. "I'd say, about in his mid twenties, maybe."

"So?"

"So, if he's that old, then, how old are you?"

Aelina chuckled. "You know, it's not polite to ask a lady her age."

"You're not a lady," Crixus added. "Ladies don't cavort with the Thieves Guild or take archery lessons."

"Why?" she asked. "Because we're too busy courting handsome young men and learning to curtsy?"

"I didn't say that," Crixus returned. "I just said that what you do is not the kind of things a lady of noble birth would do."

At this Aelina's eyes flashed towards Crixus. "And what makes you think I'm a lady of noble birth?"

"Well, you're educated for one thing," Crixus noted.

"Like I said, I was a merchant's daughter," Aelina replied. "Well off enough to have an education, but not fabulously wealthy or of noble blood." She then sighed. "And for your information, I'm thirty."

"Born during the Great War," Crixus mused.

"Something like that," Aelina replied. "My father said that the War broke out on the 30th of Frostfall and that I was born three months later, on the first day of Morning Star, the first day of the new year." She smiled fondly. "Mother always used to tell me that she and my father thought I was a gift, a blessing of joy in the middle of darkness." She sighed. "And dark it was indeed, for my first memories were of the Dominion soldiers occupying the city. They always came into my father's c...house, and made outrageous demands of him. They were so frightening, tall and golden as they were, with anger in their eyes and cold disregard in their voices." At this she paused and turned to Crixus.

"Fuck me, I'm terribly sorry!" she interjected, then clapped her hand over her mouth, realizing that she raised her voice. "I realized that I'm rambling and you're likely to fall asleep, as weary as you are."

"No, by all means," Crixus returned. "Keep going. This is better than silence."

Aelina smiled. "Well, then, let me at least offer you some food to keep you attentive, if you have a mind to listen to me talk about myself."

"Thank you," said Crixus, and he truly meant it. Though he was putting forth all of his Colovian charm towards this beautiful woman (with the innermost desire in his heart being to see just what her body looked like underneath the black Nightingale-like clothes she wore), he was indeed weary, sore and exhausted from his Great Pursuit. Aelina removed an old, thread-bare rug from the floor, revealing an alcove cut out of the floor and sealed with a flat, squarish stone. With a little effort, Aelina lifted the stone, showing the hole to be much deeper and filled with various kinds of food stuffs. From that cache, she produced a bottle of Surilie 198, a loaf of bread, a small wheel of cheese, a smaller cloth sack and several strips of dark, dried meat.

"I'm often on the road quite a bit," Aelina explained. "So I keep lasting foods in my safe-houses. But this should suffice for now."

Crixus accepted the food, though Aelina had to fetch another knife to cut the cheese and bread. From the little sack she produced a small wheel of butter, which she cut and placed upon the bread and offered to Crixus. This he did not refuse and, after a little of the dried meat and bread with cheese and butter, and washing it all down with some of the Surilie Family's wine, he was feeling much better than before.

"Now that you've eaten and drunk," Aelina stated. "If you really wish to continue where we last left off, I will go on."

"By all means," Crixus stated.

"Well," Aelina continued. "The War was certainly hard on everyone, but especially in Bravil, where I grew up. As close as we were to Leyawiin and Elsweyr, the underground skooma trade was always a problem." She cleared her throat, as if the next words out of her mouth were uncomfortable to speak.

"The Count of Bravil," she picked up. "Never gave consideration to the skooma trade until the problem became a public one. The dealers had hired thugs to protect themselves and soon enough, Bravil became a war-zone. Blood in the streets, houses looted, burned, raids day and night. The Count closed the castle gates and barricaded himself inside and the city guards with him, while outside Bravil burned. That was nigh on fourteen years ago. I heard the reports, my father being a merchant he heard everything, though I was not allowed outside of our home. Too many women were killed or raped in the fighting."

Crixus nodded, but made no reply at once.

"It was about that time," Aelina stated, casting her eyes down towards her boots. "That I took up archery. I also found a sellsword who taught me how to fight with a blade, but that never took on as much as archery."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "Then what was the point of threatening me with a knife if you suck at it?"

"Because a man, or woman, with a weapon," she stated. "Is safer than a man or woman without one. And if it had come to blows between us, my skill would make no difference, you being unarmed."

"I don't need a weapon to fight," Crixus replied.

"Nor do I," Aelina retorted. "And, after all, fighting is sometimes not the only option." She uncrossed her legs and extended the left foot out towards Crixus. "Do you see these? Enchanted boots. I found them in a gutter somewhere in the Medan District in the Old City. Why someone would throw these away is beyond me. I've found that, since wearing them, I run faster than before and can leap higher than possible."

"I can attest to that," Crixus noted. "And what good fortune, finding a pair of enchanted boots lying in a gutter somewhere. You must have a charmed life."

"I don't know about that," Aelina grinned. "But these boots certainly do come in handy."

"You know," Crixus muttered. "This reminds me of an old story about the Thieves Guild that I remember reading about when I was a boy."

"Really?" she asked. "Which story? Maybe I've heard it as well. I always used to love the old tales about the Thieves Guild."

"The Tale of the Grey Fox and Spring-heeled Jakben," Crixus added. "Legendary figures, you understand. I recall the story said that Jakben had a pair of boots very similar to your own."

"Gods, that was my favorite story!" exclaimed Aelina, a broad smile splitting her face apart. "What about the one about the Grey Fox and the orphan wood elf?"

"I remember it well!" Crixus replied, sounding just as interested as she was. "One of my favorite stories. Always a reminder that the Thieves Guild aren't just cutthroats and brigands..."

"...no, but servants of the poor and downtrodden," Aelina finished. "Stealing from the greedy..."

"...to give to the needy!" Crixus concluded.

They both threw their heads back in laughter. Outside, the sounds of the rioting had ceased, as the elves of the Walled Approach feared not any retribution from the Shield Quarter and were able to have the guards bring order to the riot. But even if the riot were still going, the two inside the little house would have laughed anyway in spite of it.

"I never met anyone who shared my love for the Thieves Guild!" Aelina gasped.

"Neither have I," Crixus added, his smile fading as he spoke. "Everyone I meet either fears them or hates them. Bah, a bunch of do-good, self-righteous imbeciles they are, praying to the Divines, thinking they're above everyone."

Aelina did not immediately reply, but instead reached for the bottle of Surilie 198 to fill out a cup for herself. Once she had emptied it, she moved her left leg back to the other one and turned to Crixus.

"So," she spoke. "Do you have any place to stay here in the city?"

"Actually no," Crixus added. "I was only here for you, because you stole my money."

"Don't think of it as stealing," Aelina returned. "Think of it as my fee for saving you. Sounds right fair now, doesn't it?"

"And what happened to my money?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, it's long gone by now," she dismissed. "I have friends to support, contacts outside of the Guild who have been helping me, you know, and my own needs to look after."

Crixus swore underneath his breath. "Well, I suppose I'm stuck here until I can regain some more money."

"Uh-oh, why's that?" Aelina asked.

"Because I have...friends as well," Crixus returned. "And they need support, and there will be more of them."

"More of them?" she queried. "Are you joining the Fighters Guild? Raising an army or something? You're surely not a hedge knight, not in those clothes."

"Something like that," Crixus replied warily.

"Come now," Aelina teased, pushing his shoulder. "You can tell me. There's no reason to hide anything from me."

"Actually, there is," Crixus returned. "A friend of mine told me that the wise man does not speak his whole mind and heart. Not saying that you're not wise for doing likewise."

"I can afford to be foolish," Aelina muttered, her voice vacant and sad. "Once I put that mask on, anything I say is forgotten." She then turned to Crixus, her voice less sad and vacant, but more discerning. "But who told you that advice?"

"A man named Lucan," Crixus returned.

"Lucan?" Aelina asked. "What did he look like? Was he thin, balding and dressed like an ascetic?"

"Hmm, yes, I would say so." Crixus nodded.

"That's Pelagius," Aelina replied, a scowl on her face as she spoke the name. "My father had dealings with him. He's a shifty man and a dishonest one, always using people for his own ends beneath a mask of helpfulness and impartiality. You would do wise to avoid him if you can."

"But he's been nothing but helpful," Crixus replied.

"I've heard some say about him," Aelina answered. "That it is better, and far safer, to trust the daedric prince Clavicus Vile than the Nameless Spy. If he's offered you help, I would not accept it. He will be helpful then, but afterwards he will demand payment for his help. And it will always be at the most inconvenient times and more than you can afford."

"I'll keep that in mind," Crixus sighed. "But, as I was about to say, my friends and I are an expensive bunch. And we have much to do. Since you stole my purse, I will have to find a way to get back all of that money."

"I see," murmured Aelina. "Well, since I appear to be in your debt after you saved me on the roof, allow me to repay the debt by helping you raise some money. You can stay here until you have enough money, then you may be on your way and our debts will be squared."

"Stay here?" Crixus asked. "You mean in _this_ house, with you?"

"Yes, with me," Aelina replied with a cheeky grin. "What's the matter, are you afraid of women?"

"No, never," Crixus returned. "I was just thinking about you..."

"What about me?" she asked. "I'm out and about all night, so it's not like that would happen. Besides, you will be going with me and, with the work I have in mind to get you your money, you're going to be kept very busy."

"I'm trembling with fear," Crixus retorted, which caused her to smile. "So, when do we start?"

"Not today," she returned. "You look like living hell. Rest up and then we'll get to work early tomorrow morning."

* * *

All that night Crixus remained at the one-room house of Aelina: he was exhausted from the pursuit and slept long and peacefully. No dreams or visions disturbed his sleep. When he awoke, though, he saw his host sitting on her make-shift bed, shuffling through several bags of coins. Crixus cleared his throat, and she turned to him.

"Good morning," she greeted. "There's some food waiting for you in the little basket on your left. Some of that I picked up from the Walled Approach, and they don't let our kind in there."

"It's the Imperial City," Crixus mused.

"It's the Walled Approach," Aelina reported. "Just like the Elven Gardens. Only elves go there, especially since the Great War."

"Why's that?" Crixus asked.

"Many believed," Aelina said. "That the Elves were spared by the Dominion when the city was sacked."

"Oh, that ain't true," Crixus stated. "I was there at the Battle of the Red Ring. There were slain elves as well as slain humans in the streets of the City."

Aelina chuckled. "You were in the War?"

"Yes, I was," Crixus retorted. "It's not funny."

"It's _not_ funny," Aelina returned. "Only that, well, you're a bit young yourself. I would say about my age, maybe a few years older."

"Try fifteen years," Crixus added.

"Gods, you're _that_ old?" Aelina exclaimed. "But you don't even look forty-five!"

Crixus chuckled. "Well, there's quite a story behind that. Would you like to hear it?"

"Go on," Aelina replied as she began returning the coins to the bag.

"Well," Crixus began. "When I was, oh, I don't know, ten, twelve, thirteen, I don't exactly remember. But around that time, a witch cast a spell on me, and I've never aged or lost my youthful vigor since I was thirty."

"That sounds like a blessing rather than a curse," Aelina remarked.

"It was a curse!" Crixus retorted sharply. "The witch was evil, a cruel, sadistic Dunmer b*tch who lived to make my life a living hell. I don't think she expected the spell to do that, or maybe it was supposed to do something else. But I've turned her curse into a blessing."

"A witch's curse, a magical blessing?" Aelina remarked. "It seems as though _you_ are the one who leads a charmed life."

"Hardly," Crixus grumbled. "I had to spend two whole years in Skyrim with the Legion, fighting those damn rebels. And there are...other things."

"Is that so?" Aelina asked. "Well, let's hope our luck holds out. We have work to do in the Shield Quarter today: difficult work as well."

Crixus chuckled. "Throwing me the hardest assignment first?"

"After our little pursuit," Aelina grinned. "I didn't think this would be too much of a challenge for you."

"So what are we doing?" Crixus asked.

"Breaking into the Imperial Prison," Aelina replied.

"Breaking _into_ a prison?" Crixus exclaimed. "I thought the whole idea of prison was that one wanted to stay _out_ of it, especially in our line of work."

"That usually is the case," Aelina stated. "But here, a co-worker..." She sighed. "...a friend of mine, ran afoul of the guards and was thrown in prison. Apparently getting caught with your hand in someone's pocket is a crime. We have to break him out."

"Him?" Crixus asked.

"A Breton named Jauffre," Aelina returned. "Very useful pickpocket. Helped me very much when I came to the Capital." She then noticed that Crixus' eyes and turned away from her. "He's twelve."

"What?" Crixus returned, Aelina's knowing glance upon him and knowing that she perceived his thoughts.

"I'm not blind, you know," she stated. "I've seen you stealing glances at me when you thought I wasn't looking."

"Just curious, is all," Crixus replied.

"Is that all?" she asked with a wink. "Well, then, I suggest you don't get too 'curious' today. We're breaking my friend Jauffre out of the Imperial Prison, and I'll need you to keep your head on tight and your eyes open. Is that clear?"

Crixus nodded, but he was not looking at Aelina while she spoke. His mind drifted back to what Babbette had told him about recruiting new members for the Dark Brotherhood. It reminded him that he was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Though no new orders had come from the corpse of the Night Mother - much to Crixus' delight - he was still tasked with rebuilding the order which he loved and respected as much as the Thieves Guild.

_What better way,_ Crixus thought. _To find new killers than in the Imperial Prison?_

* * *

Unfortunately, getting there was not as simple as Crixus had initially thought. From the little one-room house near the New Vivec corner-club to the Imperial Prison would take them across the majority of the Shield Quarter. Specifically the most dangerous parts of that quarter, as Aelina told Crixus. She gave him a black hooded cloak to wear over his traveling gear while they walked through the streets, and Crixus wore his scarf to conceal his face. At this, Aelina chuckled.

"You'll need to hide better than that," she stated.

"This is all I need," Crixus replied. "I'm surprised more of those rebel bastards didn't wear scarfs over their faces to conceal their identities. It would have been smart."

"A scarf isn't concealing anything," Aelina replied. "Much less a human in a Dunmer-populated quarter."

"Then what do you sugge..." Crixus began, then suddenly felt as though he had suddenly dozed off where he stood. Looking around he didn't see her, though he wasn't exactly sure who 'she' was and why he was supposed to be looking for him.

"Something more substantial," an eerie voice, neither male nor female, answered Crixus near at hand. He turned and saw the man in black, who removed the cowl of the Grey Fox and, once again, there stood Aelina before him and Crixus remembered who she was.

"I have this," she said, speaking with her own voice. "But you'll need something else to conceal your approach."

"I have my own ways," Crixus returned. "As you shall soon see."

Once they were fully dressed, Crixus and Aelina lowered their hoods and left the one-room house. Aelina locked the doors behind them, then led Crixus on their way eastward, towards the Bastion. Aelina placed her cowl on her face, then, thus disguised, she led the way through the streets while Crixus, with head lowered, followed on behind. The streets around them, they found, were strewn with burned out shops, looted goods and possessions and, here and there, the bodies of humans - Imperial, Breton and some Redguards - lying unburied.

"What's this?" Crixus asked to his cowled companion.

"What's left of the streets after a riot," the Grey Fox replied in the same, vague voice as before. "Several buildings have been burned down and looted as well."

"Why do they riot?" Crixus asked.

"No reason," quoth the Grey Fox. "The Shield of Hlaalu says that we should respect their need to voice their frustration through rioting, and others say that they riot merely for amusement or out of boredom. Keep your voice down, though. Your voice will give you away to the first Dunmer we meet."

The way the Grey Fox was leading Crixus down was very long, and took them both through a long stretch of the Shield Quarter. As soon as they left the vandalized streets, they came upon a few that had survived. Here they found many Dunmer in the streets or market stands, wandering about or speaking in hushed voices to one another. Though he could not see them, Crixus' ears could pick up quite a bit of what they said.

"...can't abide these humans," one grumbled. "Ain't it enough that we lost our home? That the daedra have forsaken us? Must we really put up with their kind here?"

"This is their land, after all," another replied.

"Bah! They didn't help us in the Oblivion Crisis, left us to fend for ourselves, then the mountain erupted! We deserve to live wherever we want, even if it's in the land of the bloody _n'wahs_. _They_ need to realize that we're here and we're not leaving..."

"...could have gotten thrice that from the Guild," another stated.

"I ain't that low," sneered one. "Merchants Guild. The East Empire Company is fairer than they are. My da knows about them, he used to do business with them back on Vvardenfell before the Red Year."

"...Nerevar preserve 'im, serjo."

Only a few of those the two thieves passed by in the streets looked up at them, but none of them did much more than fling rotten food or a few creative words their way. Neither of them had need to do any talking for a long while, and Crixus kept up with the Grey Fox, who kept at least three steps ahead of him. After a while, the tall, white tower of the Bastion loomed above all the smaller wooden shacks and shanties around it in the Shield Quarter. From out of the corner of his eye, Crixus saw the Grey Fox turn towards an alley.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm getting inside," the Grey Fox replied.

"But we're still twenty yards away," Crixus stated.

"From the entrance, yes," quoth the Grey Fox. "But I'm not walking up to the doors. Might as well turn myself in that way."

"Is that right?" Crixus returned. "Well, before you begin your bit of acrobatic insanity in order to get into the Bastion, allow me to show you how it's done."

"And how will you get in?" asked the Grey Fox. "Walk up to the gates and ask?"

"Close enough," Crixus replied. He lifted up his hooded head and winked at the Grey Fox, then turned back into the lane. He marched forward determinedly towards the gates of the Bastion. Directly before him he saw the guards in their Imperial armor - the red fauld of the Legion with steel over it instead of the leather of Skyrim's Legions - protecting the gate. Near at hand he saw one of the many merchant stands on the side of the street, crowded with customers. He mingled among them, keeping his head down, then whispered: "Nocturnal, hide me."

The ravens burst around him, but none of the Dunmer around him seemed to notice them as he did. Once he was sure he was invisible, Crixus began walking leisurely the rest of the way to the gates. These were open but guarded, and Crixus walked right into the Imperial Bastion, making a right into what appeared to be a small section used for storage. Here he found a secluded hiding hole for himself, then waited. Less than half a minute later, he heard scraping above his head and saw the Grey Fox sliding down the wall and land on a barrel behind him.

"How did you get inside?" asked the Grey Fox. "You disappeared into the crowd, and I didn't see you climbing the walls either."

"I walked in the front gate," Crixus replied with a self-confident grin.

"How?"

If the power of the Cowl of the Grey Fox didn't erase all memory of Aelina from Crixus' mind, he would have said "Weren't you the one who said that it's best to keep secrets?" Instead, he merely chuckled and said: "Can't tell you. It's a secret."

"Fair enough," the Grey Fox replied. "Now, the yard gate into the prison is guarded and locked. We'll need to jump over the wall and climb over into the prison yard. Then we can sneak into the prison cells and find Jauffre. Stay close to me."

Without so much as giving directions, the Grey Fox sped off towards the raised platform around the central tower. Crixus, still invisible, followed after her as best he could. No sooner had they reached the corner of the raised platform when the Grey Fox leaped on top and let down a rope behind her for Crixus to seize. With the rope in hand, Crixus climbed up the rest of the way, then waited as the Grey Fox leaped on top of the wall. On top, she turned to Crixus and waved for the rope to be thrown to her. This he did, which she held as he clambered up onto the wall. Once they were both atop the wall, they leaped down into the prison yard and, the one as quick as a blur and the other invisible, they passed quickly into a long tunnel that passed down a flight of stairs.

"Here we are," the Grey Fox whispered once they were inside the tunnel. "So far so good, don't you think?"

"Do you know what they say about prisons?" Crixus asked. "We shouldn't celebrate until we're out."

"We need to find Jauffre," the Grey Fox answered. "Then we'll turn to escaping. He's a little brown haired Breton boy. We'll split up to find him. Meet back here in five minutes."

Crixus nodded, then whispered back to the Grey Fox as she was walking down the stairs ahead of him. "Wait! What if we run into a guard?"

"We don't kill, remember that," said the Grey Fox.

_Now_ that _is something I can appreciate_, Crixus thought as the Grey Fox turned and left. He certainly did not relish the idea of killing Imperial soldiers. For himself, he was determined never to let another Imperial soldier die.

He went down the stairs and found, at the bottom, the path split off into three. He went left, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, hoping that he wouldn't encounter any guards. However, this was not to be: a guard's torchlight could be seen bobbing toward him. Thinking fast, Crixus removed the Maro ring from his pouch and threw it across the cobblestone floor. As it clanked and clattered, the guard's attention was turned and Crixus crept up behind him. He stopped to look at the shining thing before him, then leaned down to pick it up. By the time he stood up again, a strong hand had wrapped around his mouth.

"Cry out and you're dead," Crixus hissed into the jailer's ear. "Now, I want you to answer me two questions. First: where do you keep the murderers?" Crixus took from the jailer's belt his knife and pointed it at the man's throat as his hand relaxed from the mouth. "Remember, cry out and you're dead."

"Lower level," the guard replied. "But you'll never get..."

Crixus struck the man on the back of the head, then took the torch from his hand and, with the butt-end, struck him again and again until he passed out. Then he walked down the hallway, looking for stairs leading down. There were jail-cells on either side of the hallway, and several of those prisoners incarcerated here held their hands out, whispered and begged to Crixus to set them free. As was easiest and far too familiar for Crixus, he hardened his heart against their pleas and continued down the corridor, coming at last to a stone staircase leading down into the lower level.

Here there seemed to be an even darker gloom than the previous room, which had no light and only the guard's torch to light the way. Into each cell Crixus peered, if perchance he might find someone suitable for his needs. He found a few Nords here, an Imperial or two, an Orc but no Dunmer. Each time he came to them, they took him for a guard and demanded or begged to be set free. Only one did not beg or plead: a middle-aged Imperial with shaggy, graying hair and a scruffy, unkempt beard. He was lying against the wall of his cell, eyes closed, with a look of profound, and somewhat disturbing, peace upon his face.

"Pretty calm for a killer," Crixus said, passing him by.

"Should I not be?" the man asked. "Should I be in remorse for my crimes?" He scoffed. "Remorse is for those who have something to confess, and I don't. I meant to kill them, I did, and I'd do it again, given the chance."

"What is your name?" Crixus asked.

"Titus," the middling man replied.

"For what crime are you committed?" Crixus asked.

"Murder," Titus stated calmly. "Saw a little family playing in one of the shops on summer's eve. They seemed to be so happy, so vibrant, such loving people. I couldn't stand it: I wanted to make the little girls scream, their mother cry and the father to watch as they all died in front of his eyes one by one. So I made it happen."

"Rather forthcoming," Crixus stated. "But, you're amateur. You got caught."

"I don't give a rat's arse if I'm caught or not," groaned Titus. "Killing that little family was all I needed."

"Is that right?" Crixus asked. "Well, then, since you seem to have everything you need, I'll just be on my way, then." Crixus began to move, then he heard Titus calling for him.

"Wait, wait. Wait!" he coughed and choked. "Su-Supposing I _was_ interested in what you have. How much would it cost me?"

"A life," Crixus returned. "You have to take a life for your new one to start."

"New life?" asked Titus.

"Yes," Crixus grinned. "One that is not bound by the laws and ordinances of weak-minded men who have childish qualms about murder."

"And what exactly do you mean that it would 'cost me a life?'" asked Titus.

Crixus leaned in to the bars on the prisoner's cell, whispering in a hoarse voice so as to keep what he was to say as clandestine as possible.

"The Dark Brotherhood send their regards," Crixus added, grinning menacingly. The stoic Titus flinched at the knowledge and his eyes darted towards Crixus, whose smiled widened.

"Yes," Crixus hissed. "You've heard of them, haven't you? The servants of Sithis, the lord of everything and nothing. Not even prison bars can guard their prey from them." Titus quivered, fearing that his time had come and death was all that awaited him. At this, Crixus thrust his hands through the bars of the cell, sending Titus flinching back in fright. Crixus then laughed.

"You're wise to fear us," Crixus said, speaking honestly. "But our business with you is not so...lethal. In fact, as Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, I would like to extend to you an invitation to join us."

"Join the Dark Brotherhood?" Titus asked.

"Yes," Crixus replied, still grinning. "I will give you freedom, which is yours to do with it as you will. If you choose to forget, then you may do so, forgetting and being forgotten. But if you want to truly be alive, then meet me in the back of the Hestra Tavern in the Cerunian District of the New City, about ten o'clock in the evening tomorrow night. You may find what you're seeking there."

Crixus reached into his bosom and pulled out his lock-picks, by which he picked the lock on the door of Titus' cell, then ushered him out. But no sooner had he done this but a sudden knife was placed to his throat and he froze.

* * *

**(AN: Another long chapter that took a long time coming out. And, of course, since this is the "Treebeard" part of my story [ie., the lengthy middle portion where very little happens], it's tough to write. So i threw some things out there to make it more interesting for me and you [namely a cliffhanger], but there are other things that need to be done in this story. Lethia is definitely coming to a point, though where that point will be remains to be seen.)**

**(I got to have a silly little DC Comics style moment with Ae...i mean the Grey Fox's cowl. As far as her boots, i'm not sure how she actually got them, but they are indeed the Boots of Spring-Heeled Jakben. Who she really is will be revealed in time. But what do you think? Is she related to the camp follower Crixus refers to as his "goddess" or is this, like the Grey Spirit, just another fracture in his fragile sanity?)  
**


	29. Return to Skingrad

**(AN: I think i may have said this before in an earlier author's note. Lethia was introduced in the very first story _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, where Crixus spared her life in the Forgotten Vale. Her role was very minor then and still so in _The Dragon and the Bear_ [and for obvious reasons, she didn't appear in the next issue], but she returns here, having been schooled in the Common Tongue by Calcelmo of Markarth, at Crixus' request.)**

**(As with the last three stories, I finally got to throw something into this one that is a callback to something funny that i have experienced. I would have been much more into RPGs beyond PC and consoles if i knew the rules by which they were played. It seems to me that, in my mind at least, there was this great RPG rulebook that was written sometime during the 60s and 70s [when _Lord of the Rings_ was really popular], that has all the knowledge of how to play a role-playing game. This book has since been lost, and the RPG community refuses to write another rulebook because they already have the rules memorized and those who must ask for the rules are "noobs.")**

* * *

**Return to Skingrad**

"You're not being careful," the Grey Fox whispered behind Crixus' ear. "If I were a guard, you'd be dead by now."

"I see," Crixus replied, relieved to hear who the newcomer really was. "Did you find your friend?"

"Yes," the Grey Fox replied. "Jauffre is behind me. We're getting out now."

"Then release me," Crixus stated. "And we'll follow on behind."

"'We?'" asked the Grey Fox. Crixus gestured to Titus. "You never told me that _you_ had business here."

"Maybe I do," Crixus replied. "But it won't interfere with your business. He's not staying with us."

The Grey Fox removed her knife from Crixus' throat. "If he falls behind, we leave him." With that, she turned and made her way back the way she had gone, a short, brown-haired boy in prison rags following on after her. Crixus and Titus fell in behind her, running all the way back up into the prison yard and darting into the little storage room. Titus and Jauffre were slower than those who led them, but they were inside presently. Once they believed themselves to be safely within, the Grey Fox took a rope and, climbing onto a pile of crates, leaped onto the top of the outer wall of the Bastion in one bound. She then send down the rope for them to climb atop. Jauffre was up first and Crixus was amazed at the speed the young boy demonstrated in clambering up the rope without any knots or hand-holds. Once he climbed atop, Crixus sent Titus up next: the older man, by reason of his weaker joints, went slower than the young Breton.

"Prison break!" Crixus heard the voice of a guard shout nearby. Instantly he turned around and saw a guard on the other side of the courtyard, looking at him.

"Shite!" Crixus swore as a bell began to ring in the Bastion.

"Stop whining and climb up here!" the Grey Fox shouted.

Crixus didn't wait for Titus to climb all the way up the rope, but seized onto the end with him still on it and began trying to pull himself up. Unfortunately, the Grey Fox, who was holding the rope, had not the upper body strength of a Legionnaire and so almost fell over with holding the weight of two men. Pushed between letting go and falling herself, she let go of the rope and sent Titus and Crixus back down into the storage yard of the prison.

"Great!" Crixus shouted back. "You fucked it up for us!"

"Focus!" the Grey Fox retorted. "Now is not the time. You have to escape. I'll meet back with you later."

Crixus tried to make a witty comeback, but the Grey Fox had already disappeared over the wall. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned about to see a guard rushing towards the storage room. But no sooner had he entered when Titus, seizing the rope that had fallen down with them, slung it around the guard's neck and twisted the two ends into a tight noose. He squeezed tightly until the guard's eyes rolled back into his skull and he slumped down. Once he fell, Titus seized his weapon.

"No!" Crixus shouted. "We'll get out without killing anyone."

"Well fuck that!" Titus retorted. "I thought you were all about killing."

"We don't just kill indiscriminately," Crixus began. "We kill the right people, those who we're supposed to ki..."

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" Titus shouted. "Does this look like the time for an argument? Get us a way out of here, you can whine later!"

Crixus turned his attention back to the wall, muttering underneath his breath: "Fucking arse-holes, always b*tching me out. They're probably all laughing at me behind their backs, thinking 'oh, what a fool he is! He knows nothing!' I'll show all of those cunts how much I truly know and who the fucking fools are here!"

To his dismay, the wall was much higher than it appeared to be. The boots the Grey Fox was wearing made her jump higher than any human or beast-folk were capable, certainly greater than he himself could accomplish. The tiles also were smooth and flat, with no hand-hold or chimney to anchor the rope. Thus forced into a corner, he found himself cursing and hating on everyone. He cursed the Grey Fox for leaving him there to fend for himself, though he knew in his heart that it was his fault that he was in this predicament. He should have been more watchful, else the guards wouldn't have noticed them; and he shouldn't have leaped onto the rope before Titus reached the top.

As he often claimed about the Nords, his own actions were exactly what he believed others to be thinking about him. And that made him hate them all the more: how dare they think anything about him but the greatest! That was precisely the reason why he hated being open with people: they would judge him and mock him and belittle his great accomplishments.

"Titus, get up here!" Crixus shouted.

"There's too many of them!" Titus retorted. "If I leave now, they'll overwhelm us."

"Get your arse over here, old man!" Crixus shouted. "And bring the rope with you!"

Moments later, Titus was climbing atop the boxes to where Crixus stood.

"Stand here," Crixus said, pointing to the wall. "Hold out your hands and I'll try to leap up onto the roof. I'll take the rope with me and swing you up once I'm there. Are you ready?"

"Just a moment," Titus shouted as he swung at one of the guards with the sword he had taken. After three clashes, he kicked the guard's helmet, then threw the sword into another and turned back to Crixus, an eager smile on his face. "Now I am."

He then stood with his back to the wall, with hands held out. Crixus put his foot into Titus' hands and pushed himself up as best he could. Yet even with all of his Legion training and acrobatic skill, he found that he was only able to reach the top of the wall by the tips of his fingers. Yet he had the upper body strength and, exerting all of his force, he managed to slide one whole hand onto the tiles, then another, then his forearm, then two forearms. Afterwards it was only a matter of moments before he pulled himself onto the roof and heaved the rope back to Titus, holding onto his end for dear life. Titus scrambled up the rope, his feet walking upon the wall, as fast as he could go. Once they were both up, Crixus and he leaped off the wall and onto the awning of a nearby house, then came crashing down into a cart full of melons.

As soon as pursuit was heard from the Bastion gates behind them and to their right, they brushed themselves off and went off running down the street.

"Go!" Crixus shouted. "Hide yourself, throw them off. We will see each other again, tomorrow night if you choose so. Go, now!"

At this, they parted, with Crixus ducking into a dark alley to hide from pursuit. As he was running through, the Grey Fox leaped down from the roof and sneaked up behind him. His blood still pumping with the thrill of the chase, instinct made Crixus turn and face his opponent.

"You traitorous b*tch," Crixus retorted. "Leave me there to fucking die like that. I thought we had a deal!"

"We do," the Grey Fox stated. "And I'm considering ending that deal if you keep up with your complaints and insults. You weren't being careful: you almost got us killed by trying to jump onto the rope. I can't carry both of you."

"Fuck you, I am _always_ careful!" Crixus returned. "But what about you, huh? Why did you run?"

"Are you really this dense?" the Grey Fox asked. "I'm the Grey Fox, for Divines' sake! I'm the most wanted criminal in all of Tamriel! I can't be seen by anyone, especially the guards. And the way you were behaving today, care seems to be something you put to very little light."

"Never had these problems before," Crixus stated.

"Exercise caution next time," the Grey Fox replied.

"Is there going to be a next time?" Crixus asked. "What about your threat to end our deal?"

The Grey Fox sighed. "Perhaps I was wrong about you. You may not be ready for dangerous trials."

"I'm ready for whatever you can..."

"Clearly you're not," the Grey Fox stated. "You lack the discipline of your uniform. We can't be spending ten minutes of every mission to hear you complain about it all the way."

"Hey, I would have gotten the job done, either way," Crixus stated. "And I don't need you acting all condescending towards me. I deserve respect, dammit!"

"Why, because you were in the Legion?" the Grey Fox asked.

"Yes!" Crixus shouted, his blood rising up to his cheeks. It angered him to be around someone who was provoking him in the same manner as he had provoked others. As with all faults, those that were the greatest in Crixus were those that he hated the most in others. And what made matters worse was that she was his best bet to receive money he needed to return to Skingrad.

"Well, this isn't the Red Legion, it's the city streets of the Capital," said the Grey Fox. "Here you earn respect the hard way: it isn't handed to you. Now, if you want my help, you're going to have to play by my rules from here on out. That means you keep your mouth shut and do as I say. Your pride is going to get us all killed. Now then..." From the pouch on her side, the Grey Fox threw Crixus a small bag that jingled with coins as he caught it.

"A hundred septims," said the Grey Fox. "Your first payment for your services. Sloppy, yes, but we escaped and Jauffre is safe."

"Where is he?" Crixus asked.

"Hiding back with the others," she replied. "Now, we better make ourselves scarce as well."

Crixus nodded, then followed the Grey Fox as she went further into the alley. For a moment he looked back over his shoulder: not at the streets, but further westward, towards the wine fields of Skingrad. He feared that his companions were in dire straights: after all, they certainly couldn't survive without _him_, he wanted to believe.

* * *

There was a furious knock on the door of their apartment in the Blackberry Hall. Immediately Boderic, Petruvius and Casmar were roused and came to the door. The Redguard had arrived the day after Boderic found Larth in the fields south of Blackberry Hall, and, after relating to them what had happened east of Skingrad on the eaves of the Great Forest, he was permitted to remain with them until Crixus returned and judged him worthy of joining their new knightly orders. Again there was a knock at the door, furious and determined. Peering out through a crack in the wood, Petruvius crept back towards the bed and roused Larth, Lethia and Viator.

"Imperial soldiers," he whispered.

"Hmm?" Viator muttered. "What the fuck do they want?"

"I don't know," Petruvius replied.

"If it's the Empire," Boderic stated. "Then we should open the doors to them. We have nothing to hide."

"Actually we do," Petruvius said, throwing Lethia her cloak, which she had placed on the edge of her bed earlier that evening.

"Then get her out of here safely," Boderic insisted. "We'll stay behind and face whatever the guards want of us."

"Fuck that!" Viator grumbled.

"Shh!" hissed Casmar. "We can't be too loud!"

"This is your final warning, scum!" the guards beyond the door demanded. "Open up or we'll break the door down and take you by force!"

"No time!" hissed Boderic. At this, he stood up and approached Casmar, who stood at the door, then announced: "We will open the door to you!" The young Imperial knight unlocked the door and pulled it back. Immediately, the room was crowded with soldiers in the armor of the Imperial Legion. At their head was a Penitus Oculatus agent, wearing such armor as Petruvius had seen Commander Severus Maro and his troops wear.

_We're in trouble_, he thought to himself. Obvious, of course, from being raided in the dead of the night, but more so if the Penitus Oculatus were involved.

"Take them to the other rooms, separately," the Oculati ordered the soldiers around him.

"Why are you doing this?" Petruvius asked. "What crime have we committed?"

"Silence, scum!" the Oculati shouted. At this, one of the guards struck Petruvius in the chest.

"I appeal to the Elder Council," Boderic stated. "To-to the Emperor if he will hear me!"

"And which Emperor might that be, traitor?" asked the Oculati.

"This is unjust!" Boderic retorted. "Abducting private citizens from their beds in the dead of the night!"

"The Thalmor did such to their enemies in Skyrim," Petruvius added.

"Silence, all of you!" shouted the Oculati. At an order from him, Boderic and Petruvius were struck. "The Empire does what it pleases to whoever it pleases!" He then turned to Boderic. "And as for your plea..." He spat in the young knight's face. "As traitors to the Elder Council and the Empire, you have no rights. Take them away, now!"

Without their weapons, they were seized by the soldiers and dragged into the hallway. The entire hallway was lined with soldiers. At a word from the Oculati, they entered six rooms and forced their occupants out of their rooms. These were then forced out of the hallway until seven empty rooms remained. The Oculati ordered his men to begin searching the one the six had been taken from and to deposit one of their captives in each of the six rooms that had recently been cleared. Once they were inside, the doors were locked behind them and they were left alone.

Petruvius quietly went to the wall that would be nearest to one of the other rooms and gently knocked upon it. There came no response. Frustrated, he leaned his back against the wall and waited. Never in all of his wildest dreams did he ever imagine being targeted by the Imperial Legion or the Penitus Oculatus. As far as he knew, none of them had done anything particularly illegal, not in the sense that it would be construed as high treason. As in Skyrim, the Cyrodilic counties each had their own legal system and crimes of one county could not be held against one in another county. Therefore it would have to be something very serious to call out the Legion and the Oculatus.

Time dragged on and on. At least twenty minutes passed, after which the door was opened and the guards dragged Petruvius back into the main room. To his surprise, he saw the Oculati sitting at the table, pouring Colovian brandy for himself. He looked as if he was waiting for him.

"Have a seat, Silenius," said the Oculati, gesturing to the seat in front of him.

"How do you know my name?" Petruvius asked.

"The Penitus Oculatus know everything about everyone," quoth the Oculati. "Especially about those suspected of high treason."

"High treason?" Petruvius asked. "We're not traitors. We've never been anything but loyal to the Empire and the..."

"That remains to be seen," the Oculati stated. "Now then, Silenius Petruvius, you will remain silent and speak only when spoken to: is that clear?" Petruvius nodded. "Very good. Now, let us begin. Your name is Silenius Petruvius, correct?"

"Yes, that is correct," Petruvius replied.

"Describe your relation to one Servius Crixus," the Oculati queried.

"I am his servant," Petruvius said. "He joined the Imperial Legion in Skyrim and I was sent to serve him when he became Legate. His tasks often took him away from Solitude and I was..."

"That's enough," dismissed the Oculati. "Now then, he has been charged with high treason. Is this so?" Petruvius was about to speak, but the Oculati held up his hand. "Before you speak, let me remind you that, as his servant, you will be held accountable for his crime when he is found and tried if you know of his culpability and withhold that from us. Should you choose to cooperate, you will not be held accountable for anything in this matter and all charges against you in the courts of the counties will be dropped."

"Servius Crixus," Petruvius replied. "Is the last person to do anything treasonous. He is the most loyal man the Empire ever had the privilege of..."

"I see, I see," nodded the Oculati. "You are loyal to your master, that is commendable. What is even more laudable is loyalty to your ultimate master, the Emperor. Now, then, what is it that you and your master are doing here in Skingrad?"

"I don't know," Petruvius answered. "My master's council is his own and he does not reveal his mind to us until the moment of action. He has been missing for many months and I know not where he went."

"Do you have any idea when he might be back?" asked the interrogator.

"No, sir," Petruvius shook his head.

The Oculati looked him over with a scrutinizing eye of disbelief. Petruvius noted this and realized that, no matter what he said, his opponent likely believed him to be guilty beforehand. After a few such moments in silence, the Oculati nodded then called for his soldiers.

"Take him back to his cell," he ordered. "Then once he's secure within, bring up the next one."

Petruvius was carried out of the room and thrown back into the one that had been emptied for them. Once again he was thrown inside and the door was closed and locked behind him from without. Another twenty minutes passed, after which the door was unlocked and opened. The guards ushered Petruvius out into the hallway and back into his room. To his surprise, he saw that the others were there with him. Once they were inside, he rose to his feet and called to the Oculati.

"What is this?"

"You're free to go," the Oculati said with a clever, knowing grin on his face.

"But why then did..."

"Silence, fool!" the Oculati retorted. He slammed the door in Petruvius' face, then, just outside, they could hear the troops making their way out of the hallway. Within a minute and a half, the hallway was once again quiet.

"What happened to you all?" Petruvius asked the others. "What did he ask you?"

"Only what we knew," Casmar replied. "Which, granted, is very little."

"I don't trust them," Lethia added. "Especially that they know what I am."

"There should be no reason to be afraid," Boderic assured them.

"Don't be so fucking naive," Viator retorted.

"I'm not naive," Boderic replied. "I only say that we have nothing to hide. Crixus is acting on the Emperor's orders, we are not traitors. If this were indeed a case of unjustness, then I would be the first to rise up in our defense."

"And what about you, beast-fucker?" Viator asked, turning to Larth. "You haven't said a word since those soldiers left."

"So?" Larth asked.

"So," Viator replied. "One might think you've got something to hide."

"I'm not hiding anything," Larth shook his bald head.

"That's exactly what you'd say," Viator noted. "If you _were_ hiding something."

"Viator, stop this at once!" Petruvius demanded.

"Or what, you'll cry?" Viator retorted.

"You've been nothing but suspicious of him since the day he joined us," Petruvius returned.

"Yes, that's true," added Boderic.

"Maybe because there's good fucking reason?" Viator asked. "He's one of them beast-fuckers, he is. I still don't believe he won't turn us into them the next chance he gets."

"I will not!" Larth retorted.

"Mark my words," Viator stated, ignoring Larth's retort. "That bald little beast-fucker is trouble."

"Consider your words marked," Casmar replied. "For now, however, we will wait. We will wait until this Crixus of yours returns."

"Perhaps," Boderic stated. "Though there is something I would like for us to consider."

* * *

Five days had passed since the break-in to the Imperial Bastion and much had happened with Servius Crixus in the Imperial City. After the break-in, when he finally returned to Aelina's safe-house and found her unmasked, he forgot who he was angry with: she, however, did not. As he was in a difficult situation, where he needed to work with her in order to regain the money she had stolen, he sighed and bore her frustration. It did not last and she, after having spoken her mind, gave him some food she had managed to score and told him that he could continue working with her.

"After I fucked up so badly?" Crixus grumbled.

"Oh, I wouldn't call you a complete fuck up," Aelina replied. "How you got into the Bastion was certainly impressive. And I would be lying if I said you're horrible company." She then added with a sly grin. "At least when you're not b*tching anyone out."

Afterwards, Crixus ate very little while Aelina described their next job: interrupting a Thieves Guild deal and making off with the gold without being spotted. Crixus liked this job less than the other, since it would put him at odds with the Guild, but he accepted nonetheless. Part of him wanted to know where Brynjolf was, if not in Riften, and why he was not connecting with the Cyrodilic Thieves Guild. Surely he could use his influence as the Guild Master to get some changes made.

That evening Crixus dreamed. It was like the same dreams as before, yet, for some reason, they were not as powerful or disturbing as before. He could hear a voice whispering afar off in the north: the voice of the Night Mother.

"_The Sanctuary in Cheydinhal lies in ruins,_" she spoke. "_But you, Listener, who have long shut your ears against my commands, will now hear me and obey. Find your way through the depths of the earth and reclaim the lost._"

No other dreams or visions haunted Crixus' sleep that night. In the morning, after a short breakfast, Aelina and Crixus departed on their next task. This one was markedly easier than the last: all they had to do was shadow a Thieves Guild member and follow him to his customer. After the deal was made, they were to pick the pocket of the Guilder once he had left the transaction and the purchase was made. With one this task might have been performed easily enough, but with two people it was stupidly simple. Once the transaction was made, Crixus - who was not known by name or face among the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil - distracted the thief while Aelina picked his pocket. After he left, septims lighter and none the wiser, the two thieves could hardly contain the laughter within. Crixus' bonus today was two hundred septims.

That evening, Crixus went to the Hestra Tavern. To his surprise, Titus was there waiting for him in the corner, quieting sipping ale. Crixus joined him and told him a little concerning the Dark Brotherhood.

"And you want me to join your league of assassins?" asked Titus.

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "You have a killer instinct, the lust of death. You will be the first of a new order of the Dark Brotherhood."

"Alright," Titus returned. "So what do I do? Is there some kind of initiation through blood that I have to do?"

"Yes and no," Crixus replied. "I want you to go to Newland Hall in the western half of Cheydinhal and wait for me there. As for a blood-rite, that you've already paid. Now go, and when I come to Cheydinhal, there you shall be brought into the fold in verity. But for now, I have many others to bring in to this dark gathering: you are but the first."

Most of these words were either true or exaggerations. Newland Hall was in Cheydinhal, and that would give him a reason to go there beyond merely the Black-Briar Family and the Thieves Guild. He had seen something about a Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary in Cheydinhal while reading through Cicero's journal, and the words of the last night seemed to speak truth to those words. He resolved that he would start there, as sending hopefuls off into the frozen wasteland of the Pale would be nothing short of suicide, especially during the autumn and winter months. The wisest course of action would be to rebuild the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

The next several days followed in a flash, with days spent doing jobs with the Grey Fox or picking the pockets of beggars, merchants, thieves and the blind. During this time, Crixus' spirits lifted somewhat. He had still not yet had sexual relations with anyone outside of his own mind, but he at least had drink every night and the thrill of thievery to keep his mind occupied. The month of Heartfire waned away like the wick of a candle and Frostfall had now come. The days were less balmy and the nights were getting longer, but the cold had yet to settle into the Rumaran Isle upon which sat the great Imperial Capital.

It was also about this time that Crixus began to feel an itching in his feet to be back on the road again. So it was that, during their evening meal, Crixus was more quiet than usual, sipping his brandy while Aelina watched him.

"You haven't said a word since you started eating," she said. "Are you alright?"

"Hmm?" Crixus asked. "Well, yes. But I've been doing a bit of thinking lately, and I feel that the time has come for me to head out west to Cheydinhal. You've been very generous with these jobs and we've done very well: I now have enough money to make us financially secure for a good long while. But, well..." He sighed, wondering how much he should let this woman in on.

"Go on," she urged.

"I have my own things to do," Crixus stated. "And these things require my immediate presence and attention, for the people I traffic with are so dense and ignorant that they couldn't possibly survive without me."

"You certainly have a high opinion of yourself," Aelina noted. "Though, I should think, not without good reason. Despite the Bastion incident, you're certainly skilled at sneaking, tracking and pickpocketing and your archery is indeed matchless. But where will you be going?"

"East to Skingrad," Crixus stated. "Then, I suppose, to Chorrol after my business there is done."

"Chorrol?" Aelina queried, her interest piqued. "You're going to Chorrol?"

"Eventually," Crixus returned. "Why? What's there that interests you?"

"They say a famous bandit lives in Fort Ash," Aelina replied. "One who's said to be descended of the infamous Ghar'jumo the Bandit, who was the companion of the Hero of Kvatch."

"So?" Crixus asked. "What's so amazing about a bandit with a famous ancestor?"

"He might prove useful in my line of work," Aelina stated. "Besides, all things considered, I rather enjoy having you around. I'd hate to see that end."

"But what about your work?" Crixus asked.

"What about it?" she replied. "Tanis and Talas can take care of Jauffre while I'm away."

"Who are Tanis and Talas?" Crixus asked. The names were familiar, but Crixus could not, for the life of him, remember when or where he last heard those names spoken.

"Twin Bosmer brothers," Aelina stated. "They're both so alike, they took up a career as thieves. Now they work as informants for me, passing information from the Thieves Guild to my ears."

"A dangerous line of work," Crixus nodded.

"But necessary," Aelina added. "So, then, enough beating around the bush. Can I come with you to Chorrol or must I make my own way there?"

"No, no," Crixus chuckled. "I, also, have enjoyed your company. A lot better than the arse-holes I'm forced to travel with most of the time."

"Then it's settled," Aelina replied. "I'll go with you as far as Chorrol. After that..." She grinned slyly. "Well, we'll just see about that, won't we?"

* * *

They stayed up for a few minutes more, during which they discussed their plan. They would leave the city at first light, then make their way along the Gold Road westward until they reached the outskirts of Skingrad, where they would turn north and go around until they reached Blackberry Hall. Aelina would not sleep that night, for she had to find where she left Greyhart.

"What's Greyhart?" Crixus asked.

"She's my horse," Aelina stated. "Interesting story about her, though. Bought her from a Bosmer trader in the Ocato Plaza. He told me she had been raised by spriggans in the forests of Valenwood and was blessed by their power. I'm not sure I believe his story, but she is faster than any horse I've ever ridden or seen ridden." She then turned to Crixus. "Except for yours. By the way, what happened to your horse? The last I saw, it had fallen into Lake Rumare. Surely you need a new horse."

"Oh, there's no need of that, Aelina," Crixus replied, shaking his head. "My horse is indeed special, and no little swim in a great lake will be his end."

So it was that Crixus spent the night in her little one-room safe-house alone. As per her instructions, he locked the doors once she left and made sure all the food had been put away. But this night he dreamed, yet this time his dream was very strange. Instead of going anywhere or doing anything, he found himself reading through the book which he had stolen from the Synod. His hands were turning the pages swiftly, looking specifically for the words inside it. Over and over again, the phrase 'the Tower' seemed to appear everywhere he turned. However, there never seemed to be anything describing what 'the Tower' was. It seemed as though the author of _Mysticism_ assumed that the reader knew what 'the Tower' was and that no description or definition, even so little as a vague paraphrasing, was necessary.

_Who knows what this 'Tower' could be?_ Crixus' own mind thought.

There came suddenly into his mind, as if from a distant memory he himself had forgotten, the name 'the Wanderer.' Was there a connection between 'the Wanderer' and 'the Tower?' Certainly he did not know, but he needed to know. It was imperative that he discover what it meant, this 'Tower', and how to escape...

There was a knock on the door and immediately Crixus was roused from sleep. It was morning and the sun was starting to creep through the cracks in the door and the blinds on the little window. Wearily Crixus rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and moved to unfasten the locks. Once they were all undone, Aelina entered the room and opened up the storage space under the floor, removing some food for their journey. She removed very little and only that which would keep for a long journey on the open road.

Meanwhile, Crixus girded his loins for the journey. He had only his book and the bag of coins he had earned, as well as Severus' letters. This in addition to his black traveling gear made for a very swift preparation. Once they were all together, Aelina plucked up the Cowl of the Grey Fox and the two of them walked out of the house. Aelina locked the door behind them while Crixus watched as a bald Dunmer walked up behind a blond woman and began stabbing her over and over in the side. She screamed, then, bleeding out, collapsed to the ground. All eyes turned towards the altercation: Crixus, meanwhile, threw his hood down over his head to conceal who he was as the Dunmer raised his hands, one still holding the knife, and cried out, "Kill and rape every human you see! Death to the _n'wahs!_"

At once, a riot broke out, with Dunmer, men and women, attacking any human in sight. Those who were not killed screamed and ran into their homes, shutting the doors behind them before the rioters could kill them as well.

"Hurry!" the Grey Fox muttered into Crixus' ear. The cowl was on the figure's head and all thought of whoever Crixus had left the house with vanished from his mind. "Let's get to the Cerunian District before this gets out of hand."

"Why aren't the guards doing anything about this?" Crixus asked.

"The guards are afraid to go into the Shield Quarter in small numbers," said the Grey Fox. "They're likely to end up wounded or worse."

"But they're the city guards!" Crixus retorted. "It's their job to keep the peace!"

"No one wants to antagonize the Dunmer," the Grey Fox replied ruefully. "Certainly not the Elder Council, who insure that the guards in the Bastion don't stir from their posts during riots. Only until the privatized guards of the Walled Approach are mobilized will uneasy peace come to the city. Come away, now: there's nothing that we can do about this. Hurry! They'll kill you if they see what you are."

But Crixus paused. He was watching intently as, just down the lane, two Dunmer were holding down another blond-haired woman - a Nord no doubt - while a third was straddling her hips. He watched and watched until the lecherous elf had his fill, then he pulled himself out and, with a cudgel, began to beat the Nord woman's face into a bloody mess. Every groan and cry of agony the elves laughed and mocked and made the third one beat her all the harder. Looking around, he saw many such actions taking place in the lane. A Redguard man being whipped raw by laughing Dunmer youth. An Imperial mother watching as elves tore her children in pieces before her eyes. Nords, men and women, being raped and brutalized in broad daylight.

In all of this, Crixus found that he was not disgusted in the least. The Dunmer deserved a means of venting their anger at the daedra for abandoning them, as well as towards the Nords for their foul treatment of them. But beyond all excuses, there was something else that made Crixus ignore his father's teachings and choose instead to heed the example of his stepmother Sedris Ulver. Watching Nords, the most powerful human race in Tamriel, be reduced to screaming, crying, whining and begging victims, pleased him inside. He turned to the Nord woman, whose face was unrecognizable, then to two Nord men, being held down and raped violently by laughing Dunmer men: a smile crept upon his face.

"Hurry! Or do you want to join them?" the Grey Fox insisted.

Crixus didn't turn away until, following the Grey Fox, the houses obscured the lane and the sight of Nords suffering was lost from view. Yet at that point, he realized something significant about himself: he enjoyed seeing them suffer. Not necessarily a new revelation, but a realization of something that had been part of him for as long as he could remember.

* * *

A little gang of boys running through the streets of Anvil. The eldest two were inseparable, though they could not be more different. The shorter one was older than the taller one. The short one had a little mop of dark brown hair and a mean-spirited face, one that had seen abuse every day for as long as he could remember. The other was leaner, with fairer skin and darker hair, but no less strong than the shorter one. Behind the little group were two others, a boy and a girl. The little boy was the brother of the short, older boy, and though he too had the same blue eyes and had seen the same abuse, he kept to himself, head held down. The girl was enamored with the exploits of the others and often went tailing after them, enjoying every moment she could in their company.

As they were patrolling the streets of Anvil, they saw someone who the little mean-spirited boy kept in his gaze. It was a Nord youth, likely a young and scrawny one: they never chose the strong ones. Without a word to each other, the little band swiftly walked towards the young Nord, with the shorter, older one stepping up before the Nord youth.

"You're new in town, ain't you?" he asked in a squeaky, childish voice that was nevertheless thick with the Colovian drawl.

"Yes," the Nord replied. "Me da moved 'ere from Bruma-town."

"What's wrong with the way you talk?" the shorter boy asked, stepping towards the Nord. "Are you cracked in the head?"

"N-No!" the boy shook, taking a step back and stopping as he bumped into the taller boy.

"Where are you goin'?" the taller boy asked.

"Please, just let me go!" the Nord begged. "I gotta make a delivery for me da! He'll be awful sore if I'm late!"

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you, punk!" the shorter boy shouted, shoving the Nord back into the taller one. He shoved the Nord back to the shorter one, who shoved him again. "Look at me!"

The boy now was terrified of what the little group was doing. He looked quickly at the boy and girl standing apart, but they did nothing. The boy kept his eyes down while the girl seemed to be looking at everything around them. Only the shorter, angry-faced boy had his steel blue eyes on the poor Nord.

"What do you have here?" he asked, taking from the Nord the bag he had in his hand. As soon as he heard the jingling of gold coins in the bag, the boy's face became contorted with rage. "That's my money. What're you doin' with my money, you fucking thief?"

At this, he hit the Nord in the face with the bag, then punched him in the face, sending him doubled over and his nose bleeding.

"Hold him down!" the angry boy shouted to the taller one. The taller boy seized the Nord's legs while the shorter one began kicking the Nord in the stomach and face with his boot.

"Please, don't hurt me!" begged the boy. "Let me go!"

"What you gonna do, huh?" the shorter boy demanded in between blows, repeating the words of his stepmother. "Gonna kill me and eat me?"

"Oh, gods, please, help me!" begged the Nord boy.

"Shut up!" roared the shorter boy. "Your gods don't live here!"

He continued kicking and punching, with blood now covering the little boy's fist and foot. After a good long bout, the Nord boy finally lay limp on the ground. The taller boy leaped away, his eyes fearfully darting between the limp body and his angry companion, who was gazing down at the fallen boy.

"Where's your gods now, Nord?" demanded the little boy, his face twisted into a hateful mask of rage and his eyes welling with tears. "Where are they? Let them save you!"

"Servius, please..." the little boy with eyes downcast spoke up.

"Mother-killer!" he shouted at the younger boy, then pushed him aside as he ran away. Not out of fear over the welfare of the boy. His father was always so weary, so exhausted; half the man he used to be, in fact. He never had the strength to punish him. His stepmother certainly wouldn't care, the evil b*tch. The only one he would truly worry about was Grandpa Caius, the hardest member of the family, being the captain of the city guards. But he also was older and not as harsh as before, and Uncle Gentonius would have prevailed. He would have said that they were just being boys and that he should let the boys be boys. Uncle Surius would have disapproved of the fight, but he was often away with some new pretty young thing.

But for little Servius Crixus, he did not care. All he wanted was to feel strong. He didn't have that at home, being constantly bullied and abused by his stepmother, but he would look for it outside of the home. Where he was weak there, he could be strong here.

* * *

"Come on, wake up!" he heard the Grey Fox shout.

Suddenly Crixus snapped awake from his thoughts. He was back in the Shield Quarter of the New Imperial City and the Grey Fox was standing before him, wondering why he was spacing out.

"You're not being careful again," the Grey Fox stated. "It's becoming a habit of yours."

"No, no," Crixus shook his head. "I'm my own self. I just...was lost in memories."

"Then follow me back to the real world," the Grey Fox replied.

With his mind once again on focus, Crixus followed the Grey Fox through the Shield Quarter, underneath the Walled Approach and into the Cerunian District. From there they made their way out of the city by way of the Grand Gallery, which was filled with travelers, merchants, guards and city folk on their business. Out of the Grand Gallery and upon the Weye Promenade. The Grey Fox led Crixus to the horse stables on the Weye Promenade and there he saw the grey dappled horse, Greyhart.

"Where is your horse?" asked the Grey Fox.

"Not here," Crixus cryptically replied.

"Do you plan to _walk_ to Skingrad?" quoth the Grey Fox. "Greyhart's will be much slower if I have to carry you on her back."

"No one's carrying anyone," Crixus replied. "Just go on ahead. I'll catch up with you."

"I can't wait for you," the Grey Fox retorted.

"You won't be waiting for me," Crixus stated. "Just ride on and you'll see me soon enough."

The Grey Fox sighed, then mounted Greyhart and began riding alone across the Weye Promenade. For a while she rode alone, galloping slowly. But once they left the Promenade, she would have to increase Greyhart's pace, else Skingrad would be more than just two or three days away. While she was thus passing slowly through the crowded Promenade, a black horse suddenly came riding up alongside her. Sitting atop it was Crixus, beaming from one side of his mouth to another.

"Where did you get that?" the Grey Fox asked, wonder hidden by the masked and distorted voice.

"I thought you understood the value of secrets," Crixus chuckled. "Now, then, let's get going. It'll be a long journey to Skingrad."

* * *

**(AN: This actually turned out a lot shorter than I had anticipated. The whole incident with the Penitus Oculatus is interesting, though. I wonder what you all think about it. I also got to have some more "fun" with the little riot. My brother [yes, we're going there again] hates how in _Skyrim_, if a criminal, cultist, dragon or vampire appears in a city or town, the people will join in the fray [it means all that nice "immersion" he loves with nonessential NPCs comes back to bite him in the ass]. In my story, i have made it that the people of Skyrim do that because, well, the people have the right to bear arms in all the traditional holds. The Imperial loyalists disarm their people, officially so they can prevent another "assassination" attempt like with Ulfric, but, as we see, it turns everyone into cowards and weaklings.)**

**(We also see another layer of Crixus' past stripped away, in that he did absorb the hatred and evil that his stepmother brought into his family, despite his claims to the contrary.)**


	30. Secrets of the Priory

**(AN: All in my time as a writer here, i've dreaded the stupid mistake of re-posting an old chapter as a new chapter, or posting a chapter update to a story to which it doesn't belong. That happened just now with the last update, but i finally got it fixed. So embarrassing!)**

**(Here we come to what might appear to be a lesser part of the story, but is in fact so very significant that it _has_ to be viewed. And we will see something very strange about Crixus, something that will leave a very powerful impact on him and this story.)**

**(Also, this Thursday [6.11.15], i found out that Sir Christopher Lee passed away. In honor of that, something i had completely forgotten about will now be included in this chapter. Let's just say that "Julius", who had already been mentioned before, is very similar to "Ama Nin" from _Morrowind_, but I'll let you guess whose likeness i have in mind while writing him.)**

* * *

**Secrets of the Priory**

Never before had such speed been witnessed in these parts of Tamriel as was seen from these two horses: Greyhart and Shadowmere. After leaving the Weye Promenade, they turned south and rode on at high speed, the two horses charging across the road. They rode across the sloping fields as though there were wings upon the hooves of their horses. In no time, they were now gazing upon the eaves of the Great Forest.

"We'll have to go through it to reach Skingrad," Crixus stated. "But it will be dangerous."

"For you, perhaps," the Grey Fox retorted.

"The animists are not to be trifled with," Crixus added. The memory of being drugged by a trapped chest came back into mind.

"Then we will not stop to investigate the Ayleid ruins," said the Grey Fox. "I've been this way many times. They often keep to the ruins or the lands around them, and if we don't go prying therein, we will be safe."

They passed swiftly through the forest path, riding as swiftly as they had during the pursuit. They paused only once when the sun's light was directly above them, though veiled by the trees, to drink water and eat a little of the dried meat the Grey Fox had brought. But no sooner had they finished eating and drinking that they mounted up again and took off like an arrow shot from the bow-string. Nevertheless, the forest seemed to go on forever and they feared it would be night before they reached its end. Therefore they increased their pace, eager to reach the other side before dark set in and they were benighted in the land of the animists.

At last they reached the westernmost eaves of the forest, just as the sun was setting before them. They pressed on, coming to a small, secluded ring of rocks to the south of the road. Since it was farther from the eaves of the forest, the Grey Fox believed that they would at least be a little protected from the animists, should they come a-prowling. There the Grey Fox tied Greyhart to a tree while Crixus let Shadowmere roam free.

"I don't need to look after him," Crixus stated.

"You're not being careful again," groaned the Grey Fox. "Leaving such a swift and loyal horse to roam free is quite foolhardy. What if a horse thief should happen across and steal it?"

"Shadowmere will always come when called for," Crixus replied vaguely.

They ate sparingly of the food they had, then both of them wrapped themselves in their cloaks and prepared to go to sleep. Crixus did not dream that night, but he awoke at midnight suddenly. The Grey Fox was asleep near at hand, but he could see something walking through the forest, holding aloft a staff whose head illuminated the image of an old man, hooded and cloaked, with a long white beard, streaked with black about the lips. His cloth was poor, and yet on his hand was a strange ring, black with a small pyramid of black stone, perhaps Morrowind ebony, instead of a jewel.

"Awaken, my son," the old man spoke, his voice was deep and stern. Crixus sat up and saw the old man walking through the ring of stones into where they slept.

"Why do you wander as a lost man, going here and there without purpose?" asked the old man. "It is because you have forsaken the Divines."

"What foolishness are you talking about, old man?" Crixus retorted.

"I gave you one to help you," said the old man. "And you repay my generosity by burning down my temple, slaying my priests and the devout of my chantry!"

"Who the fuck are you?" Crixus swore.

"Is it indeed true?" asked the old man. "Long were you instructed in the right path: have you now, in your maturity, forgotten the knowledge passed down in your youth? Therefore shall you see only a small portion of my full power and, in the frailty of your mortality, you shall tremble!"

Suddenly the old man's eyes burned with a strong white flame and the lean, tall figure began to grow taller and taller. Crixus shut his eyes and threw himself down to the ground, for once again he felt the intense, consuming heat which he had felt in the presence of Dibella. The old man had neither spoken nor done anything, yet Crixus felt immeasurably small and utterly powerless. For the present, he feared that it would destroy him: but only fear was in his heart.

"Hearken to me, Servius Crixus of the House of Septim," said the old man. "If you would be wise, you will seek for redemption for your many crimes against the gods which you have blasphemed. Forsake the way of confusion and return to that place from whence you have fallen. And if you would have a destination, so that your wandering be not in vain, go not unto Skingrad to seek your companions, for they are not there. They have gone south and east, nigh unto the borders of Elsweyr, to seek out the Priory of my loyal subjects which live on in your companion Boderic Vesnia. Go now, and blaspheme no more!"

The light faded and grew dim, then the old man with his staff turned away and walked out of the ring of stones and was seen no more. But now that the fear had faded, as usual, Crixus was filled now with anger and hatred. He hated himself that he had not the strength of will to stand before the Divines rather than grovel like a worm. He hated the Divines that they objected to his hatred of them: after all, who were they to tell _him_ what to do! The nerve of them! Therefore, since he saw no fault in his own actions, he shifted the blame for his weak will upon the Divines, which made him angry. How dare they appear to him in such a manner! How dare they refuse to grovel before _him_, the human, who deserved, nay _demanded_, their respect!

Into his mind there appeared the old man's words, south and east to the Priory of 'my loyal subjects.' If, as Crixus feared, this man was one of the Divines, then perhaps the 'Priory' of which he spoke was the Priory of the Nine on the borders of Elsweyr. Though he had never been there before, into his mind's eye he could see himself passing by an old Imperial fort, then farther through trackless woods and fields until he came to an Ayleid ruin, glistening white through moss, decay and the wearing of the ages. A little farther still and he saw, in the midst of the woods, a clearing and in that clearing the ruins of what appeared to be a small stone town of Colovian design.

No sooner had the image appeared but it vanished. Crixus was once again in the little bole among the rocks on the side of the road, but the vision was still there. Weariness fell upon him and he leaned back against the trunk of the tree to which Greyhart was secured and fell once again into a dreamless sleep. Yet even after sleeping, he woke first, rising up before the crack of dawn to summon Shadowmere with the amulet. Once the horse was visible, he roused the Grey Fox, who had fallen asleep.

"We have a long road ahead of us," Crixus stated. "We're leaving the main road."

"Leaving?" the Grey Fox asked. "I thought we would be in Skingrad before dusk, or at least in the vintners outside."

"We're not going there," Crixus shook his head. "We're going to the Priory of the Nine."

"Priory of the Nine?" Aelina asked, having removed the mask. "But that was destroyed. I remember hearing about it in Bravil when I was very young. My father was very upset over the situation."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked.

"He said," she continued. "That the Empire had no right to disband the knightly orders. They defended the realms and the nobles out of their own virtue, not for gold or personal gain."

Crixus made no response, but climbed atop Shadowmere and gestured southward.

"Are you coming?" he asked.

With a groan, Aelina secured the cowl onto the leather harness that was strapped across her chest, then leaped atop Greyhart and followed after Crixus as he left the Gold Road and began to travel off the road. They rode far that day, passing swiftly over the rolling hills southward. There were many trees on either side, but the thick vastness of the forest was not the same this far south from the Great Forest. About mid-afternoon, they arrived at the ruins of Fort Vlastarus. Like many of the forts on the borders of the Dominion puppet state of Elsweyr, it was scarcely manned: less than a handful of troops here. But at this, Aelina vanished and the Grey Fox appeared again at Crixus' side and whispered to him.

"It would not be wise to go into the fort," she said. "They may still fly the banner of the Red Legions, but it is likely they are not our friends. I've heard many rumors that the border forts, being neglected, have fallen into anarchy or become little better than bandit camps."

"I don't believe that," Crixus retorted. "I refuse to believe that the Imperial Legion would so lightly turn-coat and desert."

"When they are underfed, under-supplied and forsaken," the Grey Fox replied. "Anyone would resort to looting to fill an empty belly."

"Not the Red Legions," Crixus shook his head. "They're noble, they're disciplined."

"My father and I," said the Grey Fox. "Saw just how 'noble' and 'disciplined' they were during the Siege of Bravil."

"I'd still like to speak to them," Crixus stated.

"Go, then," the Grey Fox replied. "But I'll remain here with my hands on my bow if you end up in trouble."

Crixus scoffed, then turned Shadowmere towards the gates of the fort, trotting there at a slow, even pace. Suddenly Shadowmere reared up on his hind legs and began to stir away. An arrow came whistling from the top of the walls and struck the place where Crixus and Shadowmere had once been standing.

"Piss off, fetcher!" he heard one shout from the walls. "Or the next one's goin' in your heart."

"You are soldiers of the Red Legions," Crixus retorted. "Sons of the Empire! I am a legate of the Imperial Legions and, by that authority, I demand that you open your gate and let me in!"

"Go back to your masters, legate!" the one on the wall shouted. "Tell them that we ain't gonna be abused and neglected no more! We free, we are!"

"This is mutiny!" Crixus retorted. "Treason! I'll have your numbers up, mark my words! You'll all be punished for this!"

"Kiss my arse, blood-back!" shouted the renegade on the wall. "Now go! I'm tired talkin' about you and from this range, it's a sure shot right to your heart."

"This is not the end!" Crixus shouted threateningly. "Justice is swift and merciless, and it is coming soon! You will all pay for this!" Crixus angrily turned his horse away back to the Grey Fox. He had no intention of telling anyone about this: for him, this was an embarrassment, an outrage, an insult to the Red Legions. No one should ever hear about this, no one should ever know that the infallible, perfect and noble - nay, the worshipful - soldiers of the Red Legion were no better than common criminals. He himself chose not to believe that the people upon the walls of this fort were actually Legionnaires.

_Must have been bandits,_ he reasoned within his mind, deceiving himself willfully. _They took the fort through subterfuge and have worn their uniforms to deceive the weak and ignorant._

"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked the Grey Fox.

"Piss off," Crixus angrily retorted.

"I guess not, then," the Grey Fox chuckled.

"They're not the Red Legions!" Crixus snapped. "They're rebels, brigands flying under false colors to avoid judgment. Just like with those wet-eared, green recruits Tullius drafted during the civil war: one can put a uniform of the Imperial Legion on a Nord, but that does not make them part of the Legion."

"Will you ignore the testimony of your eyes?" asked the Grey Fox. "I saw clearly enough that they wore the colors and bore themselves in similar manner to yourself. Even their language is similar. What makes you refuse to believe what you have heard and seen?"

"Because the Legion is infallible!" Crixus retorted.

"Tch," the Grey Fox scoffed. "They failed us in Bravil during the War."

"Shut up!" Crixus began.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do you refuse to listen to what I say? Do my words anger you? Does the truth anger you?"

"What is truth?" Crixus cowardly evaded. "Some say that the Divines exist, yet why would they let the Great War happen and all those people die? Some say that the Empire is weak, yet how could we have defeated the rebels if we were weak?"

"You're changing the subject," the Grey Fox retorted. "Every time I say something you don't like, you get angry and tell me to shut up. Why is that? Is it something you have against women?"

"Fuck no," Crixus retorted, turning Shadowmere to trot on southward. Greyhart turned and followed after him. "I've told ignorant Nord men to shut the fuck up who've dared to speak their asinine opinions in my presence."

"So then you just hate opinions that are against your own?" asked Aelina, removing the cowl once they had given the fort the back.

"I hate asinine opinions," Crixus retorted.

"And you believe those opinions that disagree with yours are asinine?" asked Aelina.

"Fuck you," Crixus snapped. "I'm sick of you arse-holes always telling me that I'm wrong."

"Alright, calm down!" sighed Aelina. "There's no reason to be so defensive."

"I wish people didn't attack my views!" Crixus retorted.

"Yet you attack what they say all the time," Aelina noted.

"Because a wise man can defend what he believes in, and he should," Crixus replied. "Our views will always be under attack by those who don't believe in the same things, therefore we must always be on the defensive, eager to defend what we believe in."

Aelina shook her head, aware of how hypocritical and ironic Crixus' words were: he complained about being attacked for his views, yet demanded that others be able to defend their views. Yet could he defend his own views with anything beyond angry words and curses? She wanted to know, but she guessed that he could not.

"Whatever you say," she sighed. "Now, then, can we at least finish the rest of today's journey without any more arguing?"

"Well," Crixus retorted. "That's entirely up to you, now, isn't it?"

They rode the rest of that day in silence, with no words spoken to each other. The thin woods continued on all around them, sometimes thicker and sometimes thinner. The leaves were not yet turning colors, yet the dull, overcast sky gave the woods a dull, lifeless hue that made the journey even more mirthless. Yet on they went, traveling as far as they could until the sun vanished through the trees to their right. They went on even further, coming at last to a cave in the wilds. But in front of it there seemed to be an ancient wall of stones, covered in moss and broken down in parts. Here they decided they would stay the night, since it was out of the open and more secure than finding a tree to sleep under. Aelina tied Greyhart to a tree near the entrance of the cave and Crixus sent Shadowmere free. This done, they went in search of a place to sleep for themselves.

Unfortunately, though the woods were mirthless, the land around the cave was bleak as well. Here and there were many tombstones in the Colovian fashion, some of which still bore the names of the interred and others of which had been scratched out long ago.

"A fine place for us," Crixus muttered. "The dead make their bed among the dead."

"I'm wandering, Crixus, not dead," Aelina replied. "Not yet at least. No need to be so grim and serious."

"I never expected to last this long," Crixus stated, coming to rest against a collapsed stone wall near where Greyhart was secured. "For years, I was of the belief that I would spend my days in Mournhold, drinking, gambling and whoring myself into an early grave."

"I'm sorry to rob you of such a fine death," Aelina jested with a grin as she sat down next to him.

"Do you take nothing seriously?" asked Crixus.

"I do indeed," replied Aelina. "You only take things far too seriously."

"Would it kill you to be more lively and light-hearted?" asked Aelina.

"I have little cause for levity," Crixus replied. "My father is dead, my mother is dead, my brother is...well, he is dead to me. I am separated from my traveling companions and I have no friends."

"Why not me?" Aelina asked. "I could be your friend."

"You?" Crixus returned. "You stole from me, and you constantly annoy me with your words."

"I'm not always annoying," Aelina stated with a grin. "And have I not brought you enough jobs to bring you in the principal amount of your purse and more besides?" Crixus nodded. "Well, then, if you gave me time, I could prove to be more than just an interesting travel companion."

"Why do you want to be my friend?" Crixus grumbled. "Don't I insult you at every turn?"

"You're interesting," Aelina replied. "And you certainly have your charming moments."

"Mmm," groaned Crixus.

"Besides, it's best to go together," Aelina stated. "Especially if you plan to go into the West Weald. That region is not safe, especially since what happened in Leyawiin."

"What happened in Leyawiin?" Crixus asked.

"From what I've heard," Aelina began. "The College of Whispers caused some kind of accident and a daedra was summoned. But then, before it could be subdued or banished, it escaped. Now there are rumors of a daedra wandering the woods of the West Weald and lower Niben."

"I don't trust rumors that speak against magicians," Crixus stated. "Far too often these come from ignorant Nords, pushing a false agenda of all magicians being dangerous and murderous."

"The one I heard it from," stated Aelina. "Was not a Nord."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "Even so, I would not believe such rumors. The sacrifice of Martin Septim at the end of the Oblivion Crisis closed the doors of Oblivion, sealing our world from those words, so that humanity would never fear the hordes of Oblivion."

"That was two hundred years ago," said Aelina. "Things change."

"I don't believe that," Crixus shook his head. "Nothing changes. The world we walk upon is the same one that was walked upon by Alessia and all those that came before us. Nothing has changed since then and nothing will ever change."

Aelina chuckled. "Well, for both our sakes, I hope that you are right, and that no daedra assaults us while we're asleep here. We're in a tight situation here, only one of us armed and I unskilled in a sword."

"We can fix that, you know," Crixus added.

"Tomorrow," groaned Aelina. "Tonight, let us sleep. We have a long road ahead of us." Aelina fell asleep while Crixus, as usual, took the first watch. Nothing happened all that night: no animals or demons appeared, and the only sounds were the cries of the creatures of the night, doleful but altogether harmless. They awoke early that morning, mounting their horses and speeding off southward once again. Today's journey was not as simple as yesterday's: about an hour or so after noon, Crixus realized that they had gone too far southward and turned their course east. By evening they were still no nearer the Priory, though at least they were on the proper path. By morning's light, they mounted up again.

* * *

So it was that at ten o'clock in the morning they arrived at a wide clearing in the forests. It was filled with ruins in the Colovian fashion, ruins of what had once been a religious priory. Some of the stones and masonry were blackened and scarred with fire, while others had their scars covered over with moss and lichen. As the two black-clad riders approached the ruins, there was a loud roar and Aelina checked Greyhart. Suddenly the grey dappled mare gave a cry as a large minotaur stepped out from the ruins, wielding a heavy, two-handed ax. Aelina also started, then reached for her bow and arrow, but Crixus interjected.

"Hold your bow!" he said. "I think we're safe."

"Safe?" she exclaimed. "But that's a wild beast!"

"Beast, maybe," Crixus stated. "But hardly wild." He then turned to the minotaur, which he had noticed bore the lower half of a very strong human. "Drogon, is that you?"

The minotaur grumbled, then lowered his ax. "Long time. Friend of Emperor come back. Squire knew you come back."

"'Squire?'" Crixus asked. "You mean Petruvius. Is he here?"

"They all here," said Drogon. At this, Crixus saw movement coming from one of the ruins. There appeared Boderic Vesnia, his armor discarded and his wavy, red hair tied up behind his head. Next to him was a large bald Redguard with a thick beard, who was clad in a leather gambeson without helmet or armor, yet had his curved sword hanging from his belt.

"Welcome again, Crixus," said Boderic in greeting. "I give thanks to the Divines that you've returned."

"Save your prayers, boy," Crixus retorted. "Your gods can't hear you."

"Oh, but they do, sir," Boderic replied. "And here especially, for we are standing upon consecrated ground: this was once the Priory of the Knights of the Nine."

"Hmm," Crixus mused mockingly. He then looked at the ground, took one step to the right, then another to the left, back to his position, then shrugged his shoulder. "This patch of ground doesn't seem any holier than that one."

"This is not a jesting matter," Boderic stated. "And you should show more respect."

"Fuck respect," Crixus retorted. "I'm your superior and you should respect _me_." He then turned to the Redguard. "I see that you're still of some use to me: that's good."

"Who is this behind you?" asked the Redguard, gesturing to Aelina who was securing her horse to a nearby tree.

"First things first, I see," Crixus then waved for Aelina to approach. "This woman is Aelina, a skilled thief who helped me in the Imperial City. And these are my friends: this ignorant young red is Boderic Vesnia, a typical god-peddling fool with prayers on his lips. This strong man..." He gestured to the Redguard. "...is Casmar. Oh, my apologies. I meant _Sir_ Casmar, Knight of the White Stallion."

"A pleasure to meet you," Aelina greeted, pausing for a moment as if deciding how best to greet them. Crixus turned to Boderic, ignoring Aelina's momentary lapse in etiquette and asked him: "Where are the others?"

"Come with me," said Boderic.

Boderic spoke to Drogon, who grunted then continued his walk around the outer ring of the priory, patrolling the perimeter. The two knights then led Crixus and Aelina into what appeared to be the ruin of a chapel in the Colovian style. Into the ruined sanctuary they came, the empty roof crowned with the black, burned wooden ribs of the ceiling vault. There was a great pile of rubble, charred wood and broken masonry, piled up in the center of the sanctuary. Near at hand was a narrow pit with a wooden ladder leading down into the pit. Into this pit Boderic led Crixus and Aelina, which went down about ten feet until it came to a flat, well-trodden bottom. There were several lanterns hanging upon wooden poles on the sides of the walls, which gave enough light to illuminate a little of the place.

The room here was high enough for him to stand up within it, and circular outward. A little farther down the sound of picks and shovels being used could be heard, but near at hand there waited two for Crixus. One was Lethia, crouched down with head bowed and white robes stained, and the other was Viator Matius, hunched down as he was taller than the tunnel.

"There you are!" Viator scowled. "It's been far too long. Run off to find yourself a good fuck? Not sure about this one, though: flat chest, like a child, but clearly a woman. At least I hope so: you don't seem like you're of Romulus' disposition."

"Watch yourself, sir!" Aelina retorted. "I won't tolerate this kind of talk."

"Suck my cock, b*tch," Viator replied, unmoved.

"And I thought you were bad," Aelina muttered, speaking to Crixus.

"I see you met Sir Viator," Crixus grinned. "And this silent one is Lethia, she's our mage." He then looked about, but saw nothing of Petruvius. "Where are Petruvius and Larth?"

"Away in the tunnels," Viator stated. "We've put them to work."

"And why aren't you working?" asked Crixus.

"I didn't sign up to be your slave, or anyone's slave," Viator stated. "I kill, I don't dig."

"So what is this, then?" Crixus asked, turning around to Boderic. "Got tired of waiting for me outside of Skingrad?"

"This was my doing," Boderic stated. "I was aware that you would return, so I thought that we should come here, to the Priory of the Nine. My parents told me that many worthy weapons and trinkets were left behind in the flight from this place. These would certainly be useful."

"So you came down here to search for trinkets, then," Crixus replied. "Well, it certainly looks like there's nothing up there."

"We've already searched the ruins," Boderic replied. "Bandits, the Legion or the Dominion have looted anything left on the surface. No, what we seek lies in the Undercroft, below the floors of the Priory. That also brings us to another problem."

"Yeah? And what's that?" asked Crixus.

"All the usual paths to the Undercroft have been destroyed or sealed up," answered Boderic. "Even the tunnel that my family and I escaped through has long since collapsed. That is why we've been forced to dig."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Aelina asked.

"What are you skilled at, my lady?" asked Boderic. "We need workers more than ever, for the work of three, or even five people, is difficult."

"I never was good at manual work," sighed Aelina. "But I can keep watch."

"Excellent," Boderic stated. "Then we can have Drogon work down here. And you, sir?" He turned to Crixus. "Would you care to assist us?"

Crixus shrugged. "If anything, there may be something of value in here. For that alone, I'd like to see what your little Priory has to offer us."

The rest of the day was spent underground, with only a brief interim for a late lunch and reunion with Petruvius and Larth. They asked Crixus about his disappearance and about Aelina, of which Crixus told little and nothing concerning Aelina and her business as the Grey Fox. To their understanding, she had helped him find the pickpocket who had stolen his purse and agreed to come with him as far as Chorrol. They were more intrigued, however, with the report of Benjin the Bold.

"It's such a shame," Petruvius stated. "That a man of such noble birth could become a scoundrel such as that."

"It's the way with people these days," stated Aelina. "Especially those of noble birth. The old families fall into folly and the new wealth, as my father calls them, have no wisdom to maintain their wealth and soon come to want."

"It's a shame," Crixus added. "That people don't respect nobility anymore. I mean, they're our leaders. Should we not respect them in that respect if nothing else?"

"Fucking naive cunt," Viator shook his head. "If the nobility act like shites, then they deserve to be treated like shite. Would you rather me suffer the tender mercies of Brachus fucking Romulus until I came of age and he lost interest in me, just like the other children who he lost interest in when they became too old for his liking?"

"Such a horrible notion," Aelina muttered. "I'm sorry that you suffered that."

"I don't fucking need your pity," sneered Viator. Aelina scowled at Viator, who stared her down disdainfully. After a while, Crixus cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"How much longer do you expect the work to continue?" Crixus asked.

"I'm not sure, sir," Petruvius replied. "Lethia might know, but she never works."

"Why not?" asked Crixus.

"I am a sorceress," Lethia stated haughtily. "And a woman: slave labor is beneath me."

"How then could you know possibly know much work there is to go?" asked Crixus.

"In the darkness of the earth," Lethia replied, her voice harsh and unfriendly. "I often had to search for new places to live when food and water were scarce. With keen ears in an eternal night without seeing, the seers could discern chambers in the rock by tapping upon the walls and listening for the echoes."

"So, then?" asked Crixus. "Did you ever...tap the rock here?"

"Once," Lethia stated. "There were no echoes."

"So a long while, then," Crixus replied.

"Indeed," Petruvius interjected. "And it will be longer if we tarry, sir. We've eaten and I'm ready to continue working. Lethia, you may rest if you wish. We have at least four strong workers, maybe five if we can get Drogon down here." He turned to Viator, who shook his head.

"Don't even fucking dare," he retorted.

"Alright, then," Crixus nodded. "Let's get to work."

For the rest of that day, they worked in the tunnel, picking and shoveling away rock and dirt, then filling the rubble into buckets and taking it up to the surface. By evening, they made their way up to the ruins of the rectory, where they made their beds. Petruvius, being gifted with much wisdom, brought along Crixus' weapons and had, with his own money, purchased a bed-roll for Crixus to sleep in. For this he was grateful, but, as usual, uttered not a single word of thanks. During that night, they heard nothing but the occasional grunting of Drogon as he watched over their camp.

* * *

The next day, after a very light breakfast - which was strengthened by morsels of dried meat which Aelina shared with them - they returned to the digging. Crixus dug with the others, but only a little bit; and he also shed his garb down to only his trousers to stave off the intense heat and stuffiness inside the tunnel. Aelina was outside more often, keeping watch, while Lethia frequently remained near the ladder, looking up at the light. Once more the work was slow, taking apart the walls piece by piece. As if that were not enough, there were three tunnels branching off from their little central cavern and going in opposite directions. Each one was of roughly equal length, and they paused periodically to work on each one. When Crixus, exhausted, asked Boderic what was the purpose of three tunnels...

"It's been a while," was Boderic's answer. "I can barely remember which direction the Undercroft was. All I know is that it's under the Priory. So we build three tunnels, hopefully that one will lead us to where we want to go."

"Wouldn't it be easier," Crixus asked. "To just have all of us work on one tunnel at once?"

"Suppose we have the wrong tunnel," Boderic replied. "Then we could spend days tunneling into earth and solid rock, never finding what we're searching for. I don't think any of us would want to spend days underground, digging in vain."

"I suppose you have a point there," Crixus noted.

Nevertheless, the work certainly felt in vain, shoveling pound after pound of earth, shifting it up to the surface, only to have more just beyond. As soon as midday came, Crixus went up to the surface to find Aelina. He found her on the southern end of the Priory, gazing southward into the deep, dark woods of northern Elsweyr.

"All clear?" Crixus asked as he approached where she stood.

"Nothing so far," Aelina retorted. "But there's definitely something stirring about in the trees. I've heard the rumors of a Great Hunt somewhere on the borders of Valenwood, but never of anything this close to the West Weald."

"So," Crixus said. "Did you have a chance to speak to any of the others?"

"Only a few words," Aelina replied. "Boderic seems nice, as does your squire Petruvius. You make them sound so cross and rude, when they're really very generous and patient. The elf, well, she doesn't look like any elf I've ever seen, and she's not exactly very nice. Short-tempered and always calls me 'slave.' Now what's wrong with the servant, the one they call Larth?"

"I don't know," Crixus shook his head. "He might just be an ignorant peasant, a former animist, but there might be something else."

"And what about the new one, the Redguard?" Aelina asked.

"Not sure about him," Crixus stated. "I ran into him the day I caught up with you. Sent him back here to join us."

"And what does joining us mean exactly?" Aelina inquired.

"Legitimizing his knighthood," Crixus replied. "The Emperor has intrusted me with restoring the knightly orders Cyrodiil."

"The Emperor, really?" asked Aelina. "The Emperor told you to restore the knightly orders?" She chuckled. "It sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

"It's true," Crixus retorted. "Already I have two knights, maybe a third. There will be others, soon, once we leave here and get on to Chorrol."

"And what will you do once you have them?" asked Aelina.

"Swear them into the Emperor's service," said Crixus. "I have his authority in this matter."

"So, then, only one more question," Aelina returned. "What is wrong with the tall one? Sir, uh, what was his name?"

"Viator Matius," Crixus stated.

"What's wrong with him?" she returned. "Reminds me of Benjin Surilie, eternally pissed off for the sake of being angry."

"I have no idea," Crixus shook his head. "I suppose he's just had a hard life, doesn't care what anyone thinks about him. Not a bad way of thinking, though." He looked around and, to his surprise, saw Viator standing outside the ruined chapel, gazing at them. He turned to Aelina and nodded, then walked back to the chapel.

"Talking to your squeeze, I see," Viator stated. "Break's over, it's time to get back to work."

"Oh, you came all the way out here to bring me back to work?" Crixus jested. "How fucking considerate."

"Just get in the fucking hole," Viator grumbled.

"After you," Crixus replied. They walked over to the hole, and Viator climbed in, then halted three rungs down and looked up at Crixus.

"I'd watch out for that b*tch of yours if I were you," Viator stated.

"She's not a b*tch, Viator," Crixus retorted. "And why should you care?"

"She's not what she appears to be," Viator stated. "I've heard the way she talks, the way she acts, the way she walks. She's not some thief or whatever the fuck she appears to be. My guess is she's some noblewoman play-acting: maybe some selfish, know-it-all rich b*tch who ran away from home, looking for adventure, romance and all that bull-shite. If anything, she's after your money."

"I think I know how to handle myself, thank you very much," Crixus stated as Viator went back below.

Crixus went back to work, spending the rest of the day shoveling dirt back up the tunnel while, predictably, Viator sat on ass and watched them contemptibly. Nevertheless, evening came sooner than yesterday, despite working a full day, and soon they were climbing back up the ladder and making their way into the ruined rectory. Crixus noticed that Petruvius and Lethia were speaking to each other alone, in rather close proximity to each other. He had noticed this closeness ever since they were captured in Kvatch, but he thought nothing of it. Larth and Viator slept quietly by himself, while Casmar sat in front of a small fire, muttering to himself. Boderic, having said his prayers, was fast asleep and Aelina kept watch over them all.

"Hey, there," Crixus spoke up. Aelina turned about towards him. "Why don't you go on to sleep? I'll take the first watch."

"If you're sure about that," Aelina stated. "It would be best to conserve your strength for the days ahead."

"I suppose so," Crixus returned. "But you will doubtless need to rest up as well, for your long and boring watches over us."

"I don't mind the solitude," Aelina retorted. "I've often found myself alone since I left home. I've learned to live through it and enjoy the moments I have around people."

"Is that why you're so facetious?" asked Crixus.

Aelina chuckled. "I didn't realize I was facetious. Now, since you plan on taking the first watch, I'll be off to sleep. And..." She walked over to Crixus, a pleased smile on her face. "...I will sleep peacefully, knowing that such a skilled man as you will be watching over us."

"Is that a compliment?" Crixus returned. "You were always telling me how much I failed, now you compliment me?"

"Consider it genuine," Aelina grinned. "But don't let it go to your head. Goodnight."

Crixus began to tread a path around the rectory, often crossing paths with Drogon, stomping silently along his path. As the night deepened, he went off on his own in search of food, leaving Crixus to fend for himself on the watch. For a moment his eyes, heavy with sleep and the warmth, coziness of the fire, closed: but, as it is with those on the verge of sleep, closing his eyes for what seemed to be a moment proved to be much longer than only one moment. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that everyone was dozing quietly in their beds. Just then he heard a low, menacing growl. He rose up, drew the Nightingale bow, fitted an arrow in the string and aimed it into the darkness.

"Don't come any closer," Crixus whispered. Though, in truth, he was eager to fight.

A glimmer of red eyes appeared in the darkness, but there was no approach. Crixus fired a warning shot, then fit another arrow into the string, but the eyes had vanished and did not return for the rest of that night.

* * *

The next day was more of the same, with work going on all day and seemingly going absolutely nowhere. The two wooden buckets they had purchased for the expedition were being used to their fullest to remove dirt and rock as quickly as they could be taken back to the surface. Lunch was quiet, after which Crixus returned to his work. On and on they went, until evening was nigh and it was almost time to quit. Crixus was in the central tunnel, using the shovel to pull dirt out of the way. Then his shovel gave a dull, stony clunk as soon as he had struck the wall. Using his hand, Crixus pawed away some of the dirt to see a brick wall before him.

Eagerly Crixus called for the others. Within moments the little tunnel was crowded with everyone, gazing eagerly at the brick wall. They brought Drogon down, who tore through the brick wall within moments. As soon as there was a hole, Crixus summoned his candlelight spell and went in first, illuminating everything around them. Behind Crixus came Petruvius, Boderic and Casmar: the two younger men were shirtless and filthy, but Casmar wore his leather gambeson. Behind came Viator, with a sword in hand. The others had only their mining tools, for they did not expect battle to happen in a deserted catacomb.

The room inside was covered with a thin layer of dust and dirt, but otherwise seemed no different to how it had appeared twenty years ago, when there were devotees to the Nine Divines in this holy place. The stone-masonry and the arched roof were intact, having not collapsed in all of the many long years: for this place had been maintained for long years since its reconstruction at the end of the Oblivion Crisis, and only in the last twenty years had it been deserted. In the sides of the walls, there were many stone figures arrayed on stone beds, buried in the fashion of the Nedic people, shared by Nord and Colovian before their cultures were divided: all of these were perfectly preserved and untouched. Only in one place was there any sign of ruin: the center of the wide, circular room. Here there had, of old, been a great dome in the center of the roof, in which was a stained glass mural of Pelinal Whitestrake battling Umaril the Unfeathered: only now the mural was gone, and the marble floor with its representation of Aurbis, the solar wheel, with eight red diamonds at the end of each spoke and one in the center, was covered with rubbish and the empty dome was filled with rubbish, cutting off the light.

Here Boderic paused, kneeling down and lowering his head in respect and sorrow.

"What's wrong?" Petruvius asked.

"Divines have mercy on us," Boderic wept. "This was once a beautiful mural of great antiquity. It was said that Carodus Oholin, a knight of this order and a devotant of Zenithar, restored this fine piece of art, depicting Pelinal Whitestrake's legendary battle with the Ayleid tyrant Umaril. But..." He stammered, his words failing him. "...I-I don't ever remember it being destroyed."

"Damn elves," Casmar spat. "They would resort to any act of desecration to erase the memory of human triumph over their kind."

"Because your kind were never supposed to exist," Lethia added from the rear. Crixus turned about and saw Lethia taking up the rear, a haughty expression.

"Just like you people," Casmar sneered. "It has to be your way or no way."

"Silence!" Boderic rose his voice. "This is sacred ground we tread upon. I'll not have you befouling it with your anger." He wiped his eyes with his grimy hand, then rose up to his feet. "Let's keep going. There is little hope that the lower levels have not been plundered, seeing this sorry sight here, but there is still hope. And while there is hope, I will venture further."

"I'm with you," Casmar added.

"So am I," Petruvius stated.

"Why the hell not," Crixus shrugged. Viator said nothing as he and Lethia followed on behind. Larth lingered behind in the entrance of the cave, waiting as if for a sign from his superiors whether he should enter.

Meanwhile, the others made their way slowly, foot by foot, into the darkness of the cavern. Crixus with his candlelight spell led the way, with Boderic behind him, giving him instructions regarding the way to go: always they took paths leading left and downward. At last they came to an old stone door, which brought Boderic to a halt, his hands shaking as he ran them over the stone.

"Dead end," grumbled Crixus.

"No," Boderic shook his head. "This is it, it has to be. I remember seeing this door sealed before we left the Priory. This is the secret chamber, my parents told me. Herein the Relics of the Crusader were stored: they could not be safely removed from the Priory in the midst of the siege, for the Dominion would seek to destroy them and the Legion would have handed them over to the Synod and the College of Whispers. They were hidden here, waiting for one who bore the Ring of Sir Amiel." At this, Boderic reached into his breeches pocket and pulled out a ring on a silver chain. This he removed and placed upon his finger.

"Tch," scoffed Crixus. "A ring is going to open a stone door?"

"This door is sealed magically," said Boderic. "No strength could force it open, whether from the outside or within. Only the Ring can open it."

"And what lies beyond this stone door?" asked Crixus.

"Proof of the presence of the gods," Boderic replied, his voice a quiver. "Real, tangible proof, the kind mer-kind would destroy by any means necessary."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "Why would elves want to erase proof of the real existence of the Divines? Aren't they supposed to be 'their ancestors' or something?"

"I don't know," Casmar retorted. "Why don't you ask your elf friend?"

"Well, Lethia?" Crixus asked.

The elf shook her head. "I know nothing of what the Ayleids of Cyrodiil did. And as for myself, the traditions of my own people are long since forgotten. All I knew I remembered from the darkness of our caves."

"It's as I said," Boderic stated. "They don't want to believe that the Divines are alive and active. They want to tell all that, because of humans, the Divines lost their power. That we...are responsible for separating all of mer-kind from their ancestors. That is my belief, and every day I see more proofs thereof."

"Listen to you ignorant fuckers," Crixus groaned. "You and Casmar, always going on and on about some big fucking conspiracy by the elves to destroy humankind. That's rich, that's pretty fucking rich: you know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were both Nords."

"I consider that a compliment," Casmar stated. "At least the Nords do not concern themselves with what offends their enemies, and instead choose to fight them."

"That's why they lost the civil war with the Empire," Crixus stated. "Because they were wrong and the Empire is right."

"So what would you say, then?" asked Boderic.

"Something simpler," Crixus replied. "There are no gods or Divines. It's all just some big fucking conspiracy used by men and elves to keep the ignorant in service to them."

"Life is never simple," Boderic stated. "And as for whether or not the Divines exist, we'll know as soon as this door is opened." At this he turned once again to open the door with St. Amiel's ring, then paused.

"What the fuck is it now?" Viator grumbled.

"Nothing," he dismissed. "Perhaps they've already judged us worthy. Now..." He exhaled. "The moment of truth."

With ring upon finger, he pressed his hand to the rock, the ruby against the stone. There was a low rumble, then suddenly the rock began to slide back, inch by inch, revealing the entrance into a long tunnel that climbed down a flight of stairs. They made their way down the stairs, then, about half-way down the stairs, they all came to a halt. At the end of the stairs, the tunnel went a little beyond, then turned sharply left. But upon the rightmost wall of this tunnel, just as it bent left, there was seen a bright light shining from the end of the tunnel.

Crixus' breath halted and his tongue swelled up within his mouth. He realized that his hands were shaking, though he could not understand the reason why. The Divines did not exist, after all. So why, then, was he trembling like a scared child in this tunnel deep beneath the Priory of the Nine, on what Boderic had called 'consecrated ground?'

"What's in there?" he whispered in a hoarse voice that everyone heard.

"'Only the penitent shall pass...'" whispered Boderic, kneeling down and circling himself as he bowed his head.

"I'm not going in there," Viator replied grimly, no jesting or cursing in his voice.

"Neither am I," said Casmar. "I do not worship elvish gods, and their shrine means nothing to me."

"Then I will go," Petruvius uttered.

"No!" Crixus suddenly stated. "No!" All eyes turned toward him, after which he realized that he had taken a step forward.

"I mean, if anyone is going to go forward," he stated. "It will be me. I'm the leader of the company, after all, right?"

"Be careful, Crixus," Boderic warned. "And remember that only the penitent shall pass."

"I don't need prayers or penitence," Crixus sneered. "It-It's probably nothing. I've seen lights in the middle of a dark cave before. This is nothing."

With that, Crixus passed onward, his candlelight spell in one hand and his empty hand quivering at his side. He felt the air grow colder as he walked down the tunnel, nearing the bend flooded with light. Each step forward was harder than the last one, but he forced himself onward. His curiosity was what drove him, a burning desire to know every secret, unlock every hidden thing, until Mundus and all within it were under his power. One more step and now he was so close that he could almost feel the light. The cold was gone, replaced instead by a furious heat emanating from the left-hand turn of the tunnel: a familiar heat, one that grew hotter with each step closer. Now he was at the edge of the tunnel, with one left turn between him and what lay beyond. Swallowing hard, he took a step forward and turned around to face the source of the light.

Without a sound, Crixus turned and ran back down the tunnel as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran through his companions, not even bothering to stop to answer their questions about what he had seen. The brief glimpse they had of him as he ran through them was ghastly, for his face was as pale as a ghost. He ran and ran, putting one foot in front of the other, going through the tunnels until he was back at the Undercroft. Pushing Larth aside, he crawled up through the tunnel, climbed the ladder, and then threw himself upon the green grass, panting, weeping and trembling all over.

Aelina, who had been keeping watch over them that night, ran out from her post and knelt beside Crixus.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong? You-You were down there longer than last time: did you find anything?"

But now, separated from the secrets below, Crixus' "better" half began to go to work. What he saw down there was inconvenient to his own desires, contrary to everything he had believed in. As usual in such instances, where he was faced between the painful truth and hiding in the darkness of error - such as lately the incidents with the old man and the Imperial garrison at Fort Vlastarus - Crixus chose far too often to hide. Hiding was comfortable, hiding meant that he never had to be weak or wrong ever again in his entire life.

"Nothing," Crixus lied. "I saw nothing down there."

"You certainly ran as if you saw something," said Aelina.

"I saw nothing, nothing," Crixus clammed up. "Nothing at all. I just need to sleep, you know."

Crixus went back to his bed-roll, where he curled up, afraid to sleep yet too exhausted to stay awake all night. The face of his stepmother, the burned bodies in the Imperial City, the Night Mother, family and Emperor lying dead at his feet, Astrid's burned corpse and now yet another image would be eternally burned into the mind of Servius Crixus: what he saw within that chamber beneath the Priory of the Nine.

* * *

**(AN: So i got to have my cake and eat it with this chapter, but not all the cake. Since obviously no one can catch my metaphors and euphemisms [i'm not being arrogant here: even my family, who have known me literally all my life, can't understand what i'm saying when i speak thus], i did get to have Julius [read. Julianos] appear in physical form. There was something else i wanted to have happen, but this chapter was getting large as it is. Instead, i just had the red eyes in the darkness as a reference for what will certainly come.)**


	31. The Ghost of Skingrad

**(AN: The original title of this chapter was almost the same as the last one, so i changed it slightly. This chapter starts out with a battle, as we haven't really had any fighting lately. I also thought i'd throw in, well, a certain kind of foe since we haven't had that kind a lot, even in the stories set in Skyrim. But there are things happening, big things, some of which i hope i haven't forgotten in the long count of months since i first set them down.)**

**(Apparently none of my readers have ever seen _Game of Thrones_, so i can't comment on what happened in the finale. So in lieu, i will just say that if you like a medieval costume-drama with epic battles, dragons and boobs, where the good guys lose and the bad guys win, and, like EVERYTHING in movies, books and television, anyone who believes in something beyond the physical world is depicted as either an idiot or a malignant agitator, you'll like it. For myself, after what happened, i might be leaving it behind.)**

* * *

**The Ghost of Skingrad**

But the night was not to be a peaceful one. In the twenty years, though looters and bandits had not invaded the ruins of the Priory of the Nine, other things had crept into the dark, deserted corners of that place. Things that bore no love for the living, seeking, as they had in life, their own will and their own way. These things lay dormant in this deserted place, waiting for one to seek them out, to bring them to life.

Now the old bones had been stirred by the coming of one whose life was drenched in crimes against the Nine.

Crixus lay awake in his bed-roll after his dramatic flight from the depths of the Priory. What he had seen continued to haunt him, but more so was he worried about how the others might think of him. He stayed awake, eager to see their arrival and hear what they had to say concerning what happened down there. No one asked about him save for Aelina, and they told her only that he had gone running out of the Undercroft with no word on what he had seen. For one brief moment, Boderic appeared, carrying something draped in a blanket: Crixus shivered in fear and looked away. Boderic and the covered item were not seen by him for a long while.

Then suddenly Crixus heard Drogon give a loud roar. Rising from his sleep, he saw the light of a fire raging fiercely inside the courtyard of the ruined Priory. From out of the shadows walked skeletons, heavily armed and armored. Around the fire he saw Aelina, Lethia and Larth. The young peasant held a burning brand in his hands as he fearfully quivered with the women: Aelina had an arrow fitted into her bow and kept her keen eyes on the shadows, while Lethia clasped a tongue of fire in her pale blue hands. Rising from his bed, Crixus took up bow, quiver of arrows and his Nightingale Blade and ran to the fire.

"Crixus!" Aelina cried out. "There you are. Gods, when you didn't answer, we thought they'd slain you."

"They?" Crixus asked.

"Skeletons," Lethia replied. "Or can your human eyes not see what closes in all around us?"

"Where are the others?" Crixus asked.

But he had no need of an answer, for soon the answer came indeed. Petruvius was the closest, with sword and shield, fending off skeletons as they approached from behind. Looking about, he saw Casmar dancing in the thickest of the skeletal hordes, curved blades hacking bones to pieces. Viator strode determinedly, taking down the armored skeletons with his sheer strength: it reminded Crixus frightfully of Eirik and how he fought. Beyond, he could hear Drogon bellowing, but there was no sign of him or Boderic as of yet.

"Down, slave!" Lethia shouted.

"Get down!" repeated Aelina.

Crixus dropped to his feet as Lethia sent a gout of fire overhead, burning the dry, rotting bones of one skeletal warrior that managed to evade Petruvius. Having fought draugr in Skyrim and bone-walkers in Mournhold, Crixus drew out his sword and strode towards his squire. While it was not a lusty wench, the fight would certainly help take off the edge. Back to back they now fought, hacking apart any skeletons that came nigh unto them. In a momentary lull in the fight, Crixus turned to Petruvius.

"How did this happen?" he demanded.

"Your guess is as good as mine, sir," Petruvius replied. "They came out of nowhere in the dead of night, and they haven't relented. Every one we take down, more keep coming."

"Uh-huh," Crixus nodded. "Necromancy, like as not. Just like in Mournhold."

"Only one question, sir," Petruvius asked. "Where's the conjurer?"

"Let's figure that out later, shall we?" Crixus retorted as he saw another group of skeletal warriors charging them. With blades drawn, shimmering gladius and black enchanted blade of the Nightingales, Crixus and Petruvius hacked their way through the next band of skeletons. The skeletons were slow and clumsy, but whatever power moving them had an ulterior motive beyond merely sending hundreds of bone warriors to be destroyed. Each horde was successively larger than the previous one, and they came from more than one direction. In response, the heroes were forced to exert more of themselves to hack, shoot and spell their enemies down and were therefore growing weaker.

"This is getting us nowhere!" Crixus groaned. "They keep coming and we're just getting tired hacking them all down."

"It's like I was saying, sir," Petruvius returned. "We need to take out the conjurer."

"And where might that be?" asked Crixus.

But there was no chance to look about, for once again another horde of skeletons charged towards them. Crixus and Petruvius were forming piles of bones around them, while Viator was now standing, not striding, and hacking apart all those who came before him. Casmar fought fiercely, aware now that life was hanging in the balance. An arrow came flying singing from Aelina's bow and struck off the hand of one skeleton that raised to strike Crixus from the side. The hordes that were closing in about them were growing in number, and no matter how many they cut down, more kept on coming.

Aelina was now surrounded by skeletons, and was using her knife to fend them off and her bow to block their attacks. One almost got through, but a swift kick from her boots sent it flying back to crack and shatter upon the ruins behind it. Then she halted, seeing something gliding towards them, something she had never seen in all thirty years of her life. She took a step back, fitted an arrow into her bow and sent the arrow whizzing towards it: a cry of dismay escaped her lips when the arrow was blocked by a magical ward.

"Over here!" she cried out. "Something's coming."

Crixus and Petruvius turned to where she had cried out and they saw it, a thing as dangerous as the bone-lords of Morrowind or the dragon priests of Skyrim. Long had they slept, the liches of the Ayleid race, twisted creatures corrupted by the daedric sorcery which they practiced. Now and then they awoke to feast on the living, stealing their souls to strengthen their magical phylacteries. As an undead thing it appeared, with dried, rotten flesh and empty eyes, clad in purple and wearing a crown and belt of gold. In its rotten, claw-like hand was a staff and at each side were skeletons clad in the golden moon-stone of the Aldmeri Dominion: soldiers of the Great War who had fallen and were resurrected by the lich.

"There is your conjurer!" Crixus said to Petruvius.

"Once we destroy it," Petruvius added. "The skeletons will cease."

It was without a second thought or a moment's hesitation that Crixus charged towards the oncoming lich. He had the Nightingale Blade, which weakened any who was as much as nicked by its black edge. Such an enchanted blade could certainly triumph against undead fiend. The two armored skeletons rose to stop his advance, but he hacked one down with a dazing blow from his sword, then side-stepped the other as he hacked a diagonal cut across the lich's robed form. The blow was a swift, clean cut, and would have, against any unarmored or lightly armored opponent, buried the blade deep within its body. In this case, the blade passed straight through tattered robes and rotten sinews.

There was a flash of green, eldritch light and, to Crixus' surprise, the cut vanished and the lich was unharmed. Crixus stepped back in wonder; but it may have been that step that saved his life. For one of the armored skeletons that he had pushed through to attack the lich swung its sword at him, but the step sent the skeleton's blow going wide. Crixus brought his blade to fend off the armored skeleton, which turned now towards him. The other one stayed back, remaining close to the lich, while Crixus was fighting off the second one. But this was no normal armored skeleton: these were stronger than the other rabble being massed on the Priory. Every blow Crixus blocked was quickly followed up, so that he was constantly on his toes, spending his already exhausted energy merely to stay alive.

"Petruvius!" shouted Crixus. It was awfully humbling to call for aid, and yet he knew that he could not last long. The armored skeleton was powerful and the armor was in good condition. Each blow he sent was blocked, parried or evaded, and he was hard put to evade and parry the skeleton's blows. But there was no answer. The squire himself was quite busy, fighting off three skeletons at a time, as were all the others. Crixus turned back and, though weary and angry, put all of his energy into staying alive against this enemy.

They were now toe to toe, fending off blows from each other. Then the skeleton did something that, at first, Crixus thought to be incredibly stupid: its left arm reached out and seized Crixus by the throat. Crixus hacked the arm off at the elbow with a triumphant laugh, which all too soon turned into an agonized yell. While Crixus reached to take off the left arm, the right arm had struck him in the leg, sending him down onto the ground. The skeleton now hovered above him and raised its sword to strike him down.

Suddenly there was a burst of light, brighter than Crixus could withstand, that appeared and burned the skeleton to powdery ashes. Crixus, his leg still aching, covered his face with his hands in response to the light, yet his curiosity enticed him to at least attempt to sneak a peak at his rescuer. Peering between his fingers he saw, wreathed in light, a figure clad in shining steel armor and a white surcoat, bearing the Red Diamond. A red kite shield was on his left arm and in his right hand was a mace, which he brought to bear down upon the lich.

"That won't do anything," Crixus spoke to the shining knight. "He can't be harmed by any weapon."

But the armored saint was not dismayed. Though the lich threw bolts of lightning and fire at him, the shield deflected the lethal magical missiles, and the mace came down in one relentless blow after another. Though each blow was healed immediately, the ferocity of the knight's blows and the sheer holy aura about him forced the lich to give ground over and over. During the fight, Crixus saw the second armored skeleton move to attack the knight from behind. Seizing and opportunity, Crixus threw the Nightingale Blade into the skeleton, shattered his neck and sending most of his upper bones falling to the ground, along with something that appeared, in the light of the bonfire, to be some kind of small urn.

Once more, curiosity aroused in Crixus a desire to take that urn and examine it: why was the armored skeleton carrying it? Was it important to the lich? He picked it up, but no sooner had that happened when the lich turned all of its attention to him and sent a fire-ball soaring towards him. Over the ruined courtyard strode Lethia, her hood cast back and her pale hair flowing freely behind her. With a wave of her hand, a ward appeared before Crixus, which took the blast of fire before it struck him.

"Destroy that urn!" cried Lethia. "It is alive with dark magic. That thing must want it safe."

Crixus raised the urn above his head and, before the lich could retaliate, smashed it. There was a loud, shrieking wail, which passed up on the night wind, then a sudden crunch as the knight's mace came down upon the unprotected chest of the lich, shattering rotten flesh in one massive blow. The lich reeled from the blow, then disintegrated like dust carried away by a strong north wind. All around them the sound of bones breaking could be heard as the skeletal warriors shattered, the power of their master being broken.

"What was that?" asked the knight. Despite being helmeted and bathed in light, the voice was familiar. "How did you know that would destroy this foul beast?"

"I did not know it would," Lethia replied. "But I could sense great and powerful magicka surrounding that urn. I would like to study its remains, if you don't mind."

"By all means," Crixus stated, stepping back from the shattered urn, only to collapse as the pain in his leg returned. The Snow Elf strode towards him, knelt down, then passed her hand over the wound, a soft, golden light emanating therefrom.

"The wound is not deep," she muttered, while gazing upon it. "And there is no poison within it. You will recover swiftly."

"That's comforting," Crixus replied, sitting up where he lay. "Now, then, who else is wounded?"

The others came in one by one. All told, they were exhausted, but received no serious wounds. Casmar and Petruvius both were cut and bruised, and Viator bore another cut on his face. Aelina had been bruised on the chin when one of the skeletons bashed her with its shield. Most of the wounds were born by Drogon, who had faced the majority of the hordes on the outskirts of their little camp. Lethia tended to his wounds, which were numerous, while Crixus, with hand raised, turned towards the knight.

"And who have we to thank for his timely rescue?" asked Crixus.

"One you have despised," said the familiar voice. "As a fool and blind one." The light dimmed and Crixus dared to lower his hand: there stood Boderic, holding a great helm of shining steel in his gloved hands while he stood there before them, clad in the shining armor that seemed as new.

"Behold the power of the Divines," Boderic said to Crixus. "Each piece of this fine suit of armor bears with it a blessing of the Nine Divines."

"Eight," Crixus corrected. "There's only eight, at least according to you all."

"There are indeed nine," said Boderic. "And in their armor resides a greater measure of their power than the elves would have us believe lies within their power to bestow. But for myself, Boderic Vesnia, of the Knights of the Nine, such armor is a fitting boon to glean from this sad ruined Priory."

"This is what we came here for?" asked Petruvius, admiring the shining armor. "It is indeed fine armor."

"I'll give it that, at least," Crixus stated. "I wish we had a dozen such knights in shining armor in Skyrim. They would have ended the civil war in a day and brought back Ulfric's head on the end of a lance."

"This is very old armor, late Third Era," Boderic began. "And there are no smiths in Cyrodiil who make this kind of armor anymore," Boderic replied. "Many were killed during the Oblivion Crisis and the Stormcrown Interregnum. During the War and after it, all the smiths were pressed into the Legion and now there are no smiths in Cyrodiil who work independently of the Red Imperial Legions. Even of those Legion smiths, none now have the knowledge or skill to make armor of this fashion anymore: they only make armor for the Legion, after those designs."

"Still," Crixus stated. "You had such armor before, and so do Viator and Casmar."

"While such smithing secrets may have been lost to the Imperials of Cyrodiil," Casmar replied. "The Bretons of High Rock maintain the old ways in their own fashion. My armor I had made for me in Wayrest, at considerable cost and pains on my part."

"And my armor," Viator stated. "Was made special for me. Was damn near impossible to make, since the old Colovian smiths didn't leave behind almanacs of their works."

"Besides, sir," Petruvius interjected. "You remember how Skyrim was, all dangerous and such. Leyawiin horses aren't suited for the high, rugged mountains or the deep snows of that land. Add to that a knight in full armor, and a fully armored horse, and you can see why Tullius never had any knights brought into Skyrim, if such knights could be found."

"Shut the fuck up, Petruvius," Crixus groaned.

"Let me guess," Aelina interjected. "He doesn't know anything, does he?"

Crixus rolled his eyes but said nothing else. Weariness was starting to overtake him, and the armor Boderic was wearing made him feel uneasy, even with the helmet removed. He walked away back to his bed-roll, the Nightingale Blade in his hands as he slogged on. His leg was still aching from the blow he had received, and that, coupled with his weariness and withdrawals from lack of drink and sex, made him even grumpier than usual. As if to make matters worse, he had been roused from a brief eye closing that could have resulted in sleep.

As he came to his bed-roll and lay himself down as gently as possible, he noticed something in the darkness beyond, something like a glint of red eyes from the shadows. He took up his bow and arrow and aimed towards the eyes, but saw that they had once again disappeared.

* * *

They rose early the next morning, packed up their things and prepared to leave the Priory. Drogon carried large branches and broken beams from the ruins and placed them over the entrance of the tunnel, after which Larth and Petruvius covered the branches with earth from their pile. Once they were all readied, they mounted their horses. Petruvius and Lethia mounted one horse, Boderic and Larth on another, with Casmar, Aelina and Crixus on their own horses, and Drogon strode alongside them on foot.

All that day they rode, traveling northwest on their way back to Skingrad. By evening, they halted in a clearing in the woods, tied up their horses, and ate a small meal. Crixus gave the contents of his purse to Petruvius, who was amazed to see what his master had brought back from his little venture to the Imperial Capital.

"This is wonderful, sir," Petruvius elated. "Now we won't have to worry about funds for a while. So, then, where do we go next?"

"Chorrol," Crixus replied. "We were invited there, and there may yet be knight-errands there to recruit."

"So what is our goal, then, sir?" asked Petruvius. "Will we travel the counties, recruiting hedge knights right and left, forming a small army?"

"A small army?" Crixus chuckled. "No, only so much as we'll need to take control of the Elder Council and bring about a peaceful transition."

"Well, if we're going to do that," Petruvius replied. "We will need more supplies, or much more money to be staying at every inn along the way."

"We won't stay at every inn," Crixus stated. "Large companies of armed men will arouse suspicion if they stop at every tavern in the counties. Once we get to Skingrad, we'll purchase tents and enough supplies for a long-term journey."

"As you wish, sir," Petruvius nodded. "Nevertheless, we will need larger numbers if we are going to accomplish this task."

"There will be others," Crixus replied. "And perhaps the Fighters Guild will be of service, after I've reasoned with them. And I have one indebted to me who has yet to settle accounts."

"Very good, sir," Petruvius stated.

Crixus rose from his place and walked over to where Casmar sat, sharpening his curved sword with a whetstone. Here Crixus sat down and spoke to him.

"You said we would speak again," Casmar said as Crixus sat down. "Well, here we are, may we speak?"

"That's why I've come here, is it not?" Crixus retorted.

"Hmm," Casmar nodded. "So, tell me about your gift. You are not a sword-singer."

"I am what the people of Cyrodiil have long held in reverence," Crixus replied. "The Akaviri, who came to this place from their lost continent in the far east, sought what I was, and their descendants, the Blades, found me: Dragonborn."

"And what does it mean to be Dragonborn?" asked Casmar.

"It means I have the divine right to the Imperial Throne," Crixus stated. "That is the greater goal I spoke of: claiming the Ruby Throne as my own."

"A challenging quest, to be sure," Casmar replied. "But who are you who claims to be the Emperor of an empire to which I have sworn no fealty? Is there not an Emperor on the Ruby Throne already?"

"He is dead," Crixus sighed. "Slain by wild Nords in Skyrim. I was there, but he told me to flee for my life. He said that I was to be Emperor in his stead, and that my purpose was to return to Cyrodiil and unite the counties together to support me in his name."

"I see," Casmar nodded. "Well, you certainly seem old enough to know the animosity between our two peoples. Your Empire left us to the 'tender mercies' of the Dominion..."

"You played the fool and left our protective graces," Crixus retorted. "Just like the Nords."

"Yet we were not worth your Empire's time?" asked Casmar. "We were told to leave, but the Nords were given soldiers to suppress the rebellion? Does your Empire care so little about its own people that you'll sacrifice some but not others?"

"Well, if you care so little for the Empire," Crixus retorted, evading Casmar's question. "What brings you to Cyrodiil?"

"I come to fight House Caro of Leyawiin," Casmar stated. "Many friends I have with the Khajiit who live in Hammerfell, and they speak of the horrible treatment the Khajiit endure under the Caros of Leyawiin."

"I've heard about the Caros of Leyawiin," Crixus replied. "Stern defenders of the people of Leyawiin from the Renrijra Krin. They should not be opposed."

"The Khajiit of Leyawiin," quoth Casmar. "Are treated as slaves there. They perform the manual labor that the Nibenese locals refuse to work, and are paid very little and sometimes nothing at all for their work. They are blamed for the troubles in Bravil over the skooma trade wars; they have become the target of violence in the streets. The city guards ignore crimes committed to them."

"It's what they deserve," Crixus replied. "Did not Elsweyr join the Dominion? As is not the Renrijra Krin of Elsweyr? What the Caros do is a good thing: they defend our southern border from the Dominion."

"But..."

"Until a better solution can be found," Crixus placated. "There is nothing we can do. Join me in my quest for the Ruby Throne, and I promise that a better solution will be found. I will insure that the innocent are protected while the Renrijra Krin are punished and driven out of Leyawiin. I promise that justice will be brought to the Empire."

"_Your_ Empire," clarified Casmar. "It is not mine."

"Ah, but it will be," Crixus stated. "For when I come into my own, I will work tirelessly to restore friendly relations between Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. Humanity must stand together against the Dominion, or else we will be picked off one by one."

"My people," Casmar muttered. "Will accept no treaty with the Empire that does not see the annulment of the White-Gold Concordant."

Crixus sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. This was something he did not wish to remove, for it was responsible for the deicide of Talos, of which he approved. "Alright, I'll consider it. But with that knowledge, will you not serve me in your quest for justice?"

Casmar grinned slyly. "I also will consider it."

Crixus smiled. "I suppose that's as good an answer as any. Welcome, Casmar, Knight of the White Stallion."

In the morning, they mounted up their horses and carried on their way. As with the previous day, they encountered nothing: for their group was now of sufficient size that any wild animal would be deterred from assaulting them. Furthermore, the presence of Drogon meant that those who were not beasts would be fearful of attacking them. When night fell, they made their camp once again, with Drogon and Aelina keeping watch around the bole. They were making good time and, by late afternoon of the next day, they would be in the outskirts of Skingrad once again.

* * *

It was early in the morning of the twelfth of Frostfall, on the morning of the third day of their return journey from the Priory to Skingrad, when Crixus was roused from his sleep. From out of the darkness came figures as dark as darkness that laid cold, iron-strong hands on him and lifted him up out of his sleep. He tried to seize a weapon, but his hands were held and their grip was strong and unbending. He tried to call out for help, but a hand was placed over his mouth. A dark shroud passed over his face and his world was enveloped in darkness. It was not the darkness of sleep, for the visions did not come to him: it was only a dull, sightless state of wakefulness, filled with the stench of decay and death. For how long he remained in such a state he could not guess, for no light came to him in all of the time during which he was bound.

At last he was thrown onto a cold, stone floor and the shroud was removed from off his head. He found himself inside a dark, dusty throne room in the Colovian style. The carpets and tapestries were either threadbare or rotted away, leaving the room very dull and grey. There were cobwebs hanging from the chandeliers and the upper corners of the large hall: but in the doorways of the hall were many clad in black with hoods concealing their faces. Directly before him was an elderly man wearing violet robes lined with fine white fur that stopped at the knees, below which were gray tights upon his legs and garrish leather shoes. Such a style had not been seen in this part of Cyrodiil for at least two hundred years. The old man's head was covered in short, slicked gray hair, otherwise large and unremarkable, save for a hooked upper lip.

"Is this the one?" the hooked lipped man asked, his voice authoritative and his accent Nibenay.

"Yes, my lord," one asked behind. "This is the one."

At this, the man walked towards Crixus, where he realized that his eyes were yellow, flecked with red, very similar to the eyes of Babbette and Serana.

"You're a vampire?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, how astute," the vampire lord replied. "Yes, unfortunately, I have been infected by that terminal disease. Sanguinare Vampiris some call it, Porphyric Hemophilia others name it, also Noxiphilic Sanguivoria. But, by any other name, the effect is the same."

"And who are you, then?" Crixus asked. "I've never seen you before."

"No, I don't think so," the vampire replied. "And normally, you never would have. You see, I don't make public appearances; haven't in quite some time. That's why I've gone under a different title. You see, Remus Hassildor doesn't exist: never has. It's just a name, something I made up to keep the weak-minded rabble satisfied. Not very clever, but the clever ones have known my true identity for centuries."

"So why am I here?" Crixus asked. "And why are you giving away your true identity to me?"

"I've been keeping watch on your actions in Skingrad, sir," the vampire stated. "If anything, you're clever, or lucky, to have broken through the Imperial blockade around the city." He grinned. "Yes, we're in Skingrad. Oh, don't worry, there's no plague in the keep. You'll be safe enough here, or at least as safe as anyone in Cyrodiil can be these days."

"I'm here because I broke a blockade?" asked Crixus. "There are others who've broken the blockade around the city."

"Yes, I'm aware of them," nodded the vampire. "Benjin Surilie has broken through the blockade, indeed. The Grey Fox is also known to me. But in any case, they are inadequate. They will never be adequate."

"Why is that?" Crixus asked.

"There is a secret," the vampire stated. "One not as old as my own, but certainly better kept than my own. At the time, only three people knew the secret: Martin sacrificed his life without ever knowing the truth. But I knew, and she knew - of course she would know - and Sir Baurus knew."

"Baurus?" Crixus asked. "You meant St. Baurus, the patron of the valiant defenders, those who protect the innocent without expecting a reward?"

"I knew him before ever he was canonized," the vampire replied.

"But that must have been...two hundred years ago," Crixus wondered.

The vampire chuckled. "Time means nothing to a vampire. I have seen the glory days of the Empire and the downfall of the Septims. I have witnessed the hordes of daedra and the legions of the Aldmeri Dominion ravage my city and the people thereof. A thousand warriors I have known, a thousand mages I have fought. I spoke to you of my false name, the one I have given to fool the ignorant. They believe that the Hassildor family has ruled in secret since the Third Era, but that is only half-true. I am the last of House Hassildor, the only member of that house. There have been no others of that name through the long span of years, only me...only Janus."

Crixus knew nothing about the Hassildor line, his own knowledge of Colovian history being the grand scheme as told in the books and what he knew of Anvil. Therefore he had no response to Janus' true name. But there were other things he had spoken that gave him pause.

"So why am I here?" Crixus asked. "What makes me more special than Benjin or the Grey Fox?

"My agents have been abroad, including in Skyrim," Janus began. "Not for that eternal night nonsense, mind you. Only the weak, animalistic of my kind give into their lusts and demand that all of Tamriel be changed to suit their passions. I have a much more...humane solution. The Surilie Family provide me and my courtiers with cattle, which are humanely slaughtered and drained. Thus I have lived for centuries in peace and safety.

"But, I'm rambling. My agents were abroad in Skyrim, and they learned about your prowess as a soldier and a captain of men. But there is another reason that you are here before me. It is why you will always be superior to Benjin Surilie and the Grey Fox. That is the secret that only three knew at one time. But Baurus is dead and she has vanished: only I remain who knows that great secret."

"How do you know the secret?" Crixus asked.

"She passed by Skingrad on her way to Anvil, seeking the prophet, centuries ago," Janus replied. "I was...very grateful for something she had done for me back then. I discovered her condition and she asked, nay, she demanded, as payment for what she did for me, that I tell no one her secret."

"And...what was the secret?" inquired Crixus.

At this, Janus dismissed his courtiers, who melted into the shadows and closed the great iron doors behind them. Once they were all alone, Janus approached Crixus and came up within an inch of his nose.

"The identity of the father," Janus replied. "But it cannot be hidden from the Last Scion."

"Last Scion," Crixus muttered, remembering those words. "You're of the Cult of the Dragon."

"I am a Knight of the Dragon," stated Janus proudly. "The guardians of the order. It was I who sent them to find you in Solstheim, and expected your return with them. Did they not tell you your lineage?"

"Yes, they did," Crixus replied. "An old woman told me that the Dragon of the South was mine."

"And so it is, and so it should have been all these years," Janus replied. "You and your ancestors should have had the Ruby Throne all of this time. Maybe then we would not be in such dire straits are we are now. After all, it is not easy to rule an Empire without an emperor, is it not?"

Crixus paused. How much did Janus know? He clearly knew something about Crixus' true lineage, but just how much more did he know? That comment about ruling the Empire without an emperor made him afraid that he knew the truth about Titus Mede's death, that it was not wild Nords that killed him but one man, a Dark Brotherhood assassin: namely, Servius Crixus.

"What you speak of," Crixus began. "My...past history. It is not wise to put such stock in it. If that is true, that I am indeed descended from such, then I have cause to worry. For was not Pelagius the Mad of that blood-line? And Tiber Septim himself, the bastard Breton who swindled, stole and murdered his way to becoming Emperor: what glory is there in being descended from that? Furthermore, if what you say is true, that you have known this to be true all of these years, then why have you not done anything for my family? Why have you not taken them into your care?"

"I am a prisoner in my own castle," Janus replied. "I have not the blood of the weak and impotent Volkihar Clan...bah, if a clan they can be called, the savage brutes! Nevertheless, I am bound in this keep. I cannot go out during the day, and were I to hide myself during the day in caves or in coffins, my departure would be known. The Mages Guild knew my secret, and that knowledge has been passed down to the Synod and the College of Whispers. They know what I am, and have been watching me in secret all these years, so that I could not move to help your ancestors for fear of betraying the secret."

"Then why are you helping me now?" asked Crixus.

"This plague is a threat to Skingrad," said Janus. "It befell us before the city recovered from the ravages of the War, and now we are hemmed in by the Legion. As I was once a mage, I have done considerable research on this matter, and have come to the firm conclusion that this plague is not only magical in nature, but that it is being controlled by someone."

"Controlled?" Crixus asked. "By whom?"

"The Synod," said Janus. "Though, of a certain, it is not sent solely to strike down my city, as Cheydinhal and Leyawiin both have fallen under its spell. However, this plague threatens all of us, including Skingrad. My belief is that this plague is being used by the Synod as a weapon to control the spread of the College of Whispers. A strong Emperor could end the tyranny of the Synod and bring the mages guilds under control, and what stronger Emperor than a scion of the Septims? One who has already made a name for himself as a hero of many battles."

"So you want me to become Emperor to save Skingrad from the Synod's...plague?" Crixus asked.

"The burden of becoming Emperor is yours alone," Janus replied. "And it should be taken not merely for the sake of one county, but for the whole Empire. As for what I want, well, that is only a small thing..."

"What is it?" Crixus asked, remembering once again what Aelina had told him about Pelagius-Lucan.

"When you have come into your own," Janus stated. "I want you to have all documents on the Hassildor family owned by the Synod and the College of Whispers erased."

"And if I refuse?" Crixus asked.

"Then I will continue as I have done these many centuries," Janus stated. "But can you live with the knowledge that the Empire will collapse around you because of your inaction?"

"No," Crixus replied immediately.

"Then I look forward to serving you, Your Majesty." At this, Janus knelt down before Crixus, lowering his head in a gesture of bowing. "Seek us out in the Golden Hill Temple in Sancre Tor."

Janus snapped his fingers and the last thing Crixus saw before the shroud was placed over his head was figures in black approaching from out of the darkness and Janus Hassildor stepping back into the shadows of his throne room: a ghost, watching over the Last Scion from the tall-spire'd city of Skingrad.

* * *

**(AN: If any of you played _Oblivion_, you'd have guessed that at least one character from there [besides Sheogorath/Vulcanis and the fan-made Vilja] was going to appear in this story. I kept his visualization from _Oblivion_ [complete with hooked upper lip], and, in typical "hipster" fashion, made him loathe everything that was going on in _Skyrim_ vampire-wise. Personally, i have my own explanations for all the "anachronisms" of _Dawnguard_ in regards to previously established _Elder Scrolls_ lore.)**

**(I also had a big "Holy Diver" moment when Boderic steps out to battle the lich in the Crusader's Armor from _Knights of the Nine_. Since it's Aedric, the armor changes to suit the wielder [just like how in the game, the armor will be light, medium or heavy based on your armor skills], which is why Valeria Vulcanis - my Hero of Kvatch and Crixus' ancestor - was able to wear the armor, though with child, and here Boderic, who is taller and thinner than she was at the time, can also wear the same armor. As far as why it's glowing, that's part of the auras and enchantments upon the armor [which the fan-boys wielded against me in their rants when i stated that Babbette had the opportunity to kill Valeria, though she never did], which appear that intense to Crixus because he is an enemy of the Divines.)**


	32. House Maro

**(AN: We need to have more serious things happening in this story, ie. more people dying. I realized that hasn't happened much in the story so far, and that is part of Crixus' personal struggle: that he feels that everyone who travels with him dies. In _The Dragon of the South_, that was slightly present, though i don't think anyone really got invested in the characters that died off therein [as far as Eirik's story goes, i had three significant characters die, and only one, i think, left any impact on you readers]. So i need to make more people die, especially people you all care about...which is impossible to know without reviews.)**

**(My brother's design for Crixus' back-story was, by his own admission, set in a very "fairy tale princess" style, with the hero losing their mother and a wicked stepmother coming in who abuses them, etc. To that end, i've thrown in another theme which i found has been played out lately in a lot of _Disney_ movies [ie, _Wreck-it-Ralph_ and _Frozen_] which i found to be problematic at best and, at worst, downright wrong. So i'm taking that and thrusting it out of its romanticized view and into the light of truth.)**

* * *

**House Maro**

Crixus found himself back in the camp by the time morning dawned. The words of Count Janus Hassildor remained in his head for the rest of the morning. When the others awoke, he found that none of them had any recollection of his disappearance, therefore he kept it to himself. After a light breakfast, they mounted up and continued on their way northwestward. By midday they reached the outskirts of the southern vineyards and rode swiftly towards Blackberry Hall. After checking their weapons temporarily, Crixus and Petruvius went to purchase the supplies they needed. They purchased six tents as well as blankets and food for seven: Petruvius said that Lethia was willing to sleep in his tent, and that Casmar had brought a tent of his own, having come on a long journey by foot from the northwestern end of Hammerfell, near the Bjoulase River.

While they were thus waiting, a hooded figure walked stealthily up behind Crixus and spoke near him in a low voice.

"It's been a while," the voice of Pelagius spoke. "Have you found what you were seeking?"

"Maybe I have," Crixus replied. "What is it to you?"

"Only insomuch as my offer still stands," said Pelagius.

"Help me take the throne, I remember," Crixus nodded, turning around to face Pelagius. "And that I might do, but the time is not yet come."

"Do not wait too long," Pelagius whispered. "For it may be too long. Beware, also, of Chancellor Buteo. He will not relinquish his power easily."

"I'll keep that in mind," Crixus replied. "Now, is there anything else you want to know? Have you found your quarry yet?"

"Not yet," Pelagius stated.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" asked Crixus.

"Perhaps," shrugged Pelagius. "If you find the Thieves Guild in Chorrol, you may find some news concerning her. A wealthy woman from Bravil cannot simply vanish into thin air, now, can she?"

Crixus paused. His choice of words spoke as if he knew more about his quarry than he was willing to let on. "Just what are you hiding, Lucan?"

"Only what I cannot be permitted to speak," Pelagius stated evasively. "My employer will punish me if I give away any incriminating information."

"Ah yes, this rich person in Bravil," Crixus replied. "Well, there's only one person I know from Bravil, and I don't think she'll be coming back."

"She?" Pelagius queried, his attention firmly on Crixus. "Who is she?"

"Nobody," Crixus replied. "Just a daughter of a wealthy citizen of Bravil."

"What is her name?"

"Why does it matter?" asked Crixus in retort.

"This could be the one I'm seeking," Pelagius replied.

"And what would you do with her if it is the one you seek?" asked Crixus.

"I would bring her back to Bravil immediately," Pelagius stated. "I may be dishonest, but I do not steal. When I have entered into a contract, I fulfill it completely."

"Hmm," Crixus mused. At last he decided to tell a lie in order to buy him and Aelina time. "I don't know: she never gave me her name. But I will ask her straight away and see wherein the truth lies."

"And how will you know if she speaks the truth or not?" asked Pelagius.

"I'm very good at spotting a falsehood," said Crixus. This was true, for it is often the lot of dishonest people to know when they're being lied to, having spent so many years lying themselves. And though Crixus often fell to lying to himself in the difficult times, he alone he allowed to be deceived and by no one else other than himself.

"It seems I have little choice," Pelagius muttered. "But to trust your judgment in this matter. Farewell for now, Crixus: remember my offer."

Crixus nodded, but said nothing else. He had no desire to change the Empire: it was, after all, perfectly fine the way it was now. No changing required. But even saying that made Crixus feel rotten inside. He often defended the freedom of the Khajiit in Skyrim, and yet he had completely ignored their plight in Leyawiin when Casmar brought it to his attention. It dawned upon him that his personal wisdom was made of nothing but contradictions. Elves were always good, except for the Dominion. The Empire was infallible, despite having forsaken the 9th Legion during the Llewynn Pass incident and, as he heard at the Surilie banquet and in Janus' keep, regularly abandoning their own people. The Divines still did not exist, even though there was surmounting evidence daily of their presence and activity within his own life. Nords were all evil and deserved to die: except for Eirik, and Torgrim, and Elisif the Fair, and Governor Rikke Strong-Arm, and Clan Battle-Born, and the Black-Briar Family, and Brynjolf...

He rubbed his head, which was aching from all of the thinking. He needed to dull his senses with strong drink and warm women or else he would once again descend into an angry, foul-mouthed and short-tempered curmudgeon who was anything but a team player.

* * *

Unfortunately, there was no beer or mead to be found in Blackberry Hall, and no wenches either. The next day saw the little group rise up from their beds in the Blackberry Hall and eat a hearty breakfast before loading up their things onto their horses and heading out of the vintners. Once they had cleared the field and were approaching the eaves of the forest, they found Drogon and Crixus summoned Shadowmere, then headed northeastward along the edge of the vineyards until they came to the northern border, where the road curled around the northern edge of Skingrad. As they were passing the northern end of the road, Crixus saw that the path wound back down towards Castle Skingrad and then away on toward the Great Forest. Here Casmar called for a halt and Crixus checked his horse and brought it around.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"We're not going through there again, are we?" asked Casmar.

"It's the only road to Chorrol," Crixus stated.

"I ran afoul of the animal worshipers in that forest," Casmar stated. "They're a dangerous lot, barely escaped with my life."

"He's right," Aelina added. "I've been through these woods many times and had to stay on my toes night and day with the animists about."

"Great," groaned Viator. "More beast fuckers."

"It would be best not to go through the Great Forest," said Casmar.

"I came through with no trouble," Crixus boasted. "And we're a rather large group ourselves, and we have Drogon."

"But we were captured before," Petruvius spoke up. "And Drogon was with us then."

"I don't want to be captured by them," Larth, who was on the back of Boderic's charger, quailed. "If they learn who I am, they will kill me."

"Then we will not go by the main road," said Aelina.

"I say we stay to the main road," Crixus retorted. "We will encounter less opposition on the main roads. This is, after all, Cyrodiil, not Skyrim: the roads are safer."

"Are you blind?" Casmar asked. "I've been accosted three times since coming to your forsaken country, by Sep, and every time on the roads!"

"You lie," Crixus sneered. "The roads are safer."

"Look, this is getting us fuck all nowhere," groaned Viator. "Let's make up our minds and be on our way."

Petruvius removed from one of the traveling bags on his back the map of Cyrodiil, which he perused while Aelina interjected.

"It's a two day journey from here to Weye, on the shores of Lake Rumare," Aelina stated. "By that reckoning, it must be at least three more days from there to Chorrol by the main road. If we leave the main road, we can shave off at least a day from that journey by going due north from this place."

"Straight through the pathless woods, I trow," Crixus added. "It would be safer to just follow the road."

"It would be swifter to leave the road here," Boderic interjected. "Besides, it is as you yourself said: we are great in number, and there are many stout men of valor among us."

"Dammit, why won't you listen to me?" Crixus retorted.

"Crixus, listen," Boderic interjected. "You must understand that we will not always agree, and that sometimes one must be forced to do things they don't like."

"But I'm the Emperor!" Crixus shouted. "Dammit, you're supposed to obey me!" As soon as the words had left Crixus' mouth, he knew that he had misspoken. All eyes turned towards him, most of them open in surprise.

"Excuse me," Aelina spoke. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," Crixus demurred, lowering his face as he blushed in embarrassment.

"You just said that you were the Emperor," Aelina noted. "Why did you say that? Is not Titus Mede II still our Emperor?"

"Look, I said the wrong thing, alright?" an angry Crixus retorted. "If it's so damn important, we'll leave the road. But mark my words: I'm not some child who knows nothing. I'm older than most of you and have seen more than any of you can boast of! If I say a way is better, that is the truth, whether you want to believe it or not. In less than a day, this trek off the road will get us lost and it will be all your fault!"

Crixus scowled at the others as they passed by him, turning their horses off the road and into the wilds. Aelina was the last, looking back to Crixus before falling in line behind Drogon. At the very last, Crixus rolled his eyes, then checked Shadowmere off to follow along behind.

The rest of the day was spent in silence, plodding through trackless paths with the sun as the only guiding light, indicating which way was east and west. About late afternoon, as the light was beginning to turn golden, they came upon the ruins of an Ayleid well, with a small group of animists camped there. They were evenly matched, but the group of riders with three knights and a large minotaur sent the animists running scared. It was too late to carry on, and so they decided to make camp here.

"They will return," Crixus grumbled. "And in greater numbers."

"Better to meet them in a place like this," Boderic stated. "Than out in the woods at night somewhere."

The rest of that evening was spent in silence, including their meal. As they had purchased more food in Blackberry Hall, they could eat heartily without fear of running out of supplies. They had more than enough to last nine people as far as Chorrol. Once they had eaten, they bundled themselves up in their blankets and set up their tents around the little Ayleid well. Drogon would keep watch around them, since he had no tent: as for the rest, they all had their own tents, save for Petruvius and Lethia, who would be sleeping together in one tent. Crixus set his tent up first, finishing quickly - his time of setting up and taking down his own tent while in the Legion kept such activities prompt - then looked towards Petruvius and Lethia.

"What's wrong?" Aelina asked, noticing his glance.

"Hmm?" he replied. "Oh, it's nothing. I don't see what my squire finds in that elf, or what she sees in him."

"Why?" asked Aelina.

"She hates humans," Crixus stated. "And she's a prophetess, or at least she claims to be."

"So?" she teased. "Not all prophets are as celibate as priests and primates."

"Oh, it would be a sin to let any human sleep with Lethia," Crixus stated. "She should have an elf to mate, so she could bear elf-children after her kind and repopulate her race. Who knows, in a generation or two, there might be enough elves to take Skyrim back from the Nords."

"You certainly don't care much for Nords," Aelina noted.

"No, I don't," Crixus returned. "I told you why before and I don't feel like sharing it."

"Well, you know," Aelina replied. "You always have a choice when it comes to these types of problems."

"Yeah?" Crixus asked. "And what choice have I?"

"Either to continue to stew here in your bitterness," Aelina replied. "Or else face your enemy and conquer them."

"Heh, can't argue with that," Crixus sighed. "I just wish it were easier. Facing one person I can do, but an entire race..."

"You will do what you feel is right," Aelina stated.

"How do you know that?" Crixus asked. "What if I do the wrong thing?"

Aelina chuckled. "You certainly won't. Remember, I was with you for seven days in the Imperial City. You're very confident that what you believe is right. I don't believe you will have any trouble deciding what is right."

"I wish the others were so confident in my decision-making," Crixus replied. "They're always second-guessing everything I do, everything I say, every choice I make."

"Fuck them," Aelina retorted. "You shouldn't live your life for them, but for yourself."

"Is that right?" Crixus asked.

"Why not?" she replied. "It worked for me."

"Did it, now?" asked Crixus, the memory of Pelagius' words coming back into his mind. "You know, you spoke very little about your past life."

"Because it's not important," sighed Aelina.

"Why not?" asked Crixus.

Aelina sighed. "Because it was pointless. The only prospect I had before me was to marry, have children and carry on the family's wealth. While that might be just fine for other Colovian and Nibenese women, I'm not like them. I want to enjoy a life of thrills and adventure before old age claims what strength I have, and I end up a dotard like my father."

"You'll never be a dotard," Crixus stated, shaking his head.

"How can you be so sure?" Aelina asked.

"The same reason you're confident I'll do the right thing," Crixus replied with a grin. Aelina chuckled and the sound made Crixus' heart melt: it was the first time in a long season when he actually felt this giddy about someone. To his amazement, he could not recall a moment when Elisif made his heart melt in similar fashion.

"And what of you, then?" Aelina queried. "A few hours ago, you called yourself 'Emperor' but said very little in defense of your words. Why is that?"

Crixus sighed. "Look, unless you want to share with me the intimate details of your life, my life is off the table."

"Why?" asked Aelina. "What's wrong?"

"The details of my life might get you killed," Crixus replied.

"Why?" Aelina asked. "Has this happened before?"

"Well, no," Crixus shrugged.

"Then how do you know my life will be in danger if you tell me?" Aelina asked.

"Because people who travel with me die," Crixus sighed. "It-It hasn't happened yet, but I don't want that to happen again. Especially not to you."

"Why especially me?" she asked.

Crixus shook his head. "Nevermind, I-I spoke wrongly again. Good night."

He crawled into his tent and closed the flap, his mind abuzz with Aelina's words. He had never thought of what she had said, about living his life for himself and no one else. Always it seemed as though he was giving of himself for the good of the Empire, and it brought him nothing but loss: the loss of his father, the loss of the 9th Legion and exile. What had worried him most about his time with the Dark Brotherhood, hearing the Night Mother's voice in his head, was that he was once again being used for someone, or something, else. He would have had no problem killing anyone for his own reasons; that was 'honest' and 'good', murder for personal reasons. But the moment he was killing for someone 'greater' than him, then murder became morally wrong.

_But I can't give up on it all, can I__?_ he thought to himself. _What will I have left if I give up the Empire? It has been everything to me!_

* * *

Earlier that night, they were awakened to find their camp surrounded by a company of animists. Just as they had predicted, they came upon them in greater numbers. Therefore it was, once again, that they roused themselves and took up their weapons to defend themselves. This group was much larger and fought savagely, screaming and yelling as they charged towards them. A battle ensued that was over before it began. Crixus received a blow to the head that dazed him, but was not fatal. Boderic and Drogon received most of the wounds, while Viator was only lightly injured after a spiked club struck him in the arm. After six animists lay dead around them, the others high-tailed it back into the forest.

"You see?" Crixus asked. "If we had taken the main road, this wouldn't have happened."

"We would have had a worse time of it," Casmar, who had escaped the battle without a single wound, stated. "If we went through the Great Forest."

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus retorted.

The attack left them all on edge, and they all stayed up the rest of the night and into the morning. Afterwards, they ate a light breakfast and mounted up once again. They journeyed in silence for a very long while, all of them weary and exhausted from the battle of last night. As if that were not bad enough, today was an especially hot day for late summer and the three knights were boiling in their tin cans. Even those who were not clad in heavy armor were drenched in sweat: they all doffed their cloaks and Lethia even risked being exposed by removing her cloak and hood. Therefore they were all of them most miserable and spoke not a word to each other. Thus they carried on for most of the day. Meanwhile, the land about them began to undergo a drastic change. The wooded fields of Skingrad were replaced with rolling hills clustered with trees. At the top of each hill, they saw that more and more hills continued onward, like a great emerald ocean with giant waves rolling onward and upward.

While they were thus entangled, they saw afar off, on one of the hills before them, a banner flying high upon one of the hills. Keen-eyed Crixus was the first to spot it and discern what charges were upon it: golden banner with a blue stripe through it, with what appeared to be a white horse in the center.

"That symbol, I remember it," Aelina stated. "It is the sigil of House Maro, the ruling family of Anvil."

"How do you know this?" Crixus asked.

"I was educated, as you know," Aelina stammered. "My-My father, he taught me the sigils of the House of Nobles."

"A strange thing for a merchant's daughter to know," Viator, whose horse was nearby, instigated.

"My father was not part of the Merchants Guild," replied Aelina sharply. "He worked directly with the counts, and wanted to be knowledgable about those with whom he worked."

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure," Viator rolled his eyes.

"What is a Maro banner doing this far from Anvil, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I don't know," Crixus shook his head. "But I say let's go find out." He then picked out Aelina and Casmar to accompany him up to the hill while the others remained behind.

But they had not begun to climb up the hill upon which the banner was placed when they came between a long stretch of green at the base of the hill, flanked with trees on either side. At the far end of the stretch was a knight in heavy armor, half bent in his saddle from the sweltering heat. Behind him and a little up the hill sat another knight atop a horse. Both of them were clad in steel plate armor, with lances in hand and great helms on their heads, but the one on the side of the hill had a red and black plume atop his helmet.

"Halt, stranger!" the knight at the bottom of the hill cried out. "None shall pass this hill."

"See what I meant?" Crixus muttered to Aelina and Casmar. "This would have never happened if we followed the road." He then turned to the knight. "This land belongs to the Emperor, and as his servant, I have full right to go where I please."

"This land does not belong to you," retorted the knight.

"And who does it belong to, good sir?" asked Crixus. "The House of Maro? They have no claim to any land in Chorrol or Skingrad. Or are you declaring war on the Count of Chorrol, claiming his land as your own?"

"Do you dare challenge me, peasant?" the knight retorted.

"Peasant?" Crixus retorted. "I'll make you eat those words! I've taken down mightier men than you!"

"Then raise your weapon, villain!" the knight shouted. "I challenge you in the name of the Knights of the Golden Bulwark. To the death!"

"Casmar!" Crixus shouted. "It's time to prove your mettle. Engage this impudent upstart."

"For the White Stallion!" shouted Casmar as he picked up his helmet with one hand to place on his head while his other hand hoisted up his lance.

Across the field the two knights charged, both of them sweating and exhausted from the heat, their lances heaving with the difficulty of their tilt. Crixus, meanwhile, was watching the whole scene take place, wondering if he should intervene. He had yet to see Casmar in his full strength and knew not if he would succeed. In a moment of worry, he reached for his Nightingale Blade, then thought better of it and did not draw blade from sheath. As his hand left the hilt of his sword, he noticed the little red ring upon his finger.

_What a fool!_ he thought._ I should have opened with that! If Casmar doesn't kill that knight, I should show him this._

The two struck, their lances clanking upon their armor, but neither did they pierce or break. They ran to opposite ends of the valley and charged again at each other, lances aimed as best they could. Crixus watched the fray intently, eying every move Casmar made against the Knight of the Golden Bulwark. This time their lances struck each other, and the shock sent both lances flying from their hands as they galloped back to each start. Casmar shouted a Yokudan war-cry as he drew forth his curved sword from its sheath and charged again at the knight. At the point of impact, Casmar ducked as the knight swung his sword at him, then struck him on the back of his helmet with the pommel of his sword, sending him falling down from his horse. Crixus seized his chance and spurred Shadowmere to where the knight had fallen. Immediately he leaped off the horse, drew a knife from his belt and removed the knight's helmet. Beneath it was a young man with dark hair and Uncle Surius' eyes and forehead.

"Coward!" shouted the lad. "You dare not engage me fairly!"

"I'm not your enemy," Crixus said, kneeling down beside the young man. "I'm a friend. No, I'm more than a friend. I'm family."

"You're nothing to me!" the young man retorted.

"Do you see this?" asked Crixus, holding his right hand before the young man's face, the red ring held forth. "Do you recognize this ring? You fly the colors, you must know this ring."

"Where..." breathed the young man. "Where did you get that?"

At that point, there was a cry and a clash of steel. Both Crixus and the young knight turned their attention to the field. The plumed knight and Casmar were battling each other atop their steeds, Imperial gladius against curved Redguard blade. Both Crixus and the young knight called out to both of their champions to cease. Their swords paused in mid-swing, after which the plumed knight turned to the fallen one and spoke in a high voice: likely a younger man putting on the voice of an adult.

"Knights of the Golden Bulwark?" asked the plumed knight. "I thought we had agreed that we would be called the Knights of the Noose!"

"I engaged them, my choice!" the fallen knight retorted. "Besides, Knights of the Noose is such a bad name, makes people think about punishment."

"Exactly!" the plumed knight asked. "Now hold still, the Knights of the Noose must drive back these..."

"Wait!" the fallen one interjected. He then turned to Crixus. "Show her!"

"Quintus!" the plumed knight snapped.

"Her?" asked Crixus. "Quintus?" He looked at the plumed knight, who, near at hand, he saw to have a much smaller frame than most knights he had must thus far. "You're of the Maro family, aren't you?"

"What if we are?" asked the fallen knight, whose name was Quintus. "What does that mean to you? Where did you get Surius Maro's signet ring?"

At this, the plumed knight dismounted with sword still in hand. After dismounting, the plumed knight removed his helmet, revealing a young woman with dark hair and a face that was very much like Surius' and his second wife Caldana.

"And just who are you, stranger?" the young woman asked. "And where _did_ you get that ring?"

"You're never going to believe this," Crixus chuckled. "Fuck, I barely believe it. But I...am your first cousin, Servius Crixus, son of Claudia Maro."

"Claudia Maro?" the woman asked. "And why should that name mean anything to us?"

"You gave his name away just now," Crixus said, gesturing to the younger knight. "Quintus. Your...uh, niece, Selena, she showed me the family records. I saw your names, and your father told me about them before: if this is Quintus..." He gestured to the young man, then turned back to the woman. "Then you must be Alcedonia."

Both of the two young people looked at each other in amazement, though the female knight, Alcedonia, kept her sword in her hand and her blue eyes - so much like those of his maternal family - shifting warily towards Casmar.

"Are you here to take us back to Anvil?" she asked Crixus.

"No," he shook his head. "No, my road lies towards Chorrol."

"Are you sure of this?" she asked. "Considering that small army you have, you would be perfectly positioned to take us back by force."

"Yes, indeed," Crixus stated. "But I am not ready to take you back. In truth, I would have you enter my service and follow me. I am going throughout the land in search of worthy knights to serve the Empire."

"And why would you consider us worthy?" the young girl asked. "Didn't your champion best my brother in a duel?"

"Yes, that is true," stated Casmar. "But you are young and I am older, and have many more years of experience against you. Even were we in better weather..." He gestured up to the bright sun, burning the knights in their heavy armor here below. "...I would still have the advantage."

"You will have your chance to test your mettle in truth," said Crixus. "When we get to Chorrol, we will spar daily with the Fighters Guild and you shall have your chance to serve the Empire."

"Is that so?" Alcedonia asked. "Well, then, if you want my answer to your offer, you must answer me this question."

"Alright, what is it?" Crixus asked.

"Tell me, where did you get that ring?" she asked, looking with her eyes to the red ring on Crixus' hand.

"Your father gave it to me to give to you," Crixus stated. "He...he said some words too, but I forget them."

"You're certainly honest for a play-acting spy," Alcedonia replied.

"I may be a spy," Crixus stated. "But my mission would not be to trap you in sophistry. I serve the Emperor first and foremost."

"That doesn't prove that you're not a spy," Alcedonia stated. "Or that you didn't steal that ring from my father."

"Steal? From Uncle Surius?" Crixus chuckled. "Oh, I may be many horrible things, but I do not steal from family. Especially Uncle Surius. I remember, he was my favorite of your family, growing up in Cyrodiil."

"And _that_ is your proof?" Alcedonia asked.

"Doni," Quintus interjected. "Maybe we should go with them."

"Shut it, Quintus," Alcedonia retorted. She then turned back to Crixus. "Well, carry on. You were saying why I should leave all and trust you?"

"You're right," sighed Crixus. "You have no reason. I mean, you've probably only heard rumors about me, stories, all your life. Then, out of the blue, some stranger just walks up, claims that he's your long-lost cousin and has your father's ring. I can understand your hesitation: you're a wise woman, Alcedonia."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Alcedonia stated. "Especially if it's true that you're my nephew."

"No, that's not it," Crixus retorted. Both Casmar and Aelina noticed that he didn't even blush at the accusation. "What I'm trying to say is that...well, your Emperor needs you. I need you. And I would like you to join me and see, through my actions, that I am indeed an honest man and will not take you back to Anvil."

Alcedonia looked at her brother, who shrugged his shoulders. At this, she lowered her sword and returned it to her sheath.

"I guess I don't have much of a choice in the matter, do I, now?" she returned. "So, we're heading north, right? Any chance of stopping by Hackdirt on our way to Chorrol? It's much closer and the tavern there is as good as any can get this far in the wilds."

"We will stop there for the night," Crixus stated. "And there we will talk further." He then turned to young Quintus and offered him his hand. "Up with you, young man, and mount up your horse. I must go fetch the others: we will find this Hackdirt and stay there this night."

Crixus leaped back atop Shadowmere and returned to where he had left the others. Again, as in the presence of Severus Maro's wife, Crixus felt as though he had betrayed family once again. But this time it was not a far off, distant thing: he loved Surius, who was father to Alcedonia and Quintus. And now he had outright told his son and daughter that he would be disobeying the one he loved. With a wearied sigh, he turned back to where he had left the others: glad he was that he had not brought Petruvius or Lethia with him, as they would have known about the incident more than Aelina and Casmar.

* * *

**(AN: Ugh, i wanted this chapter to last longer, but then decided against it and gave you all once again yet another shorter chapter, rife with the things i mentioned above and yet two more new characters. I also need to go back to describing and characterizing all this new stuff: without reviews, i have no way of knowing if any of you know my characters, are in any way invested in them or if they are even half-way decent. Boderic is a very white-knight character, Larth is going to be very useful, Petruvius and Lethia's stories need to come back to center, Viator is mostly abrasive but has few [and i do mean few] positive aspects. I actually did a lot of work on these two new characters, even though it took this long to get them out of my head and to you all.)**


	33. A Place of Peace and Safety

**(AN: At last, a clever usage of chapter title! Although, much to my annoyance, this _will_ be a very long chapter: a VERY long chapter.) **

**(As it's been too long since we saw our villain, i thought we needed another cutaway. This, maybe, is not the most subtle scene, but i wanted to remind our audience what i, and apparently only i, know [using the general ideas of the Jesuit Oath to punctuate their extremity]. Arannelya's subtly is good, but we also need to see that, beneath that subtly, is a veteran of wars past and of wars to come.)**

* * *

**A Place of Peace and Safety**

Lady Arannelya had insured that her hand would not be noticed in this matter. She uttered the name of Servius Crixus to Chancellor Buteo during a dinner service, and told him to send a small force to Skingrad: not to arrest, not yet, but only to inquire. Only to learn things: and oh, the things they learned! Now the messengers were coming back to the Imperial City with all speed. A Penitus Oculatus agent, a Bosmer, entered the Thalmor Office in the Medan District in the Old City and addressed the guards. They told him that Lady Arannelya was not at her desk, but had gone to the training barracks in the Walled Approach. The agent bowed, then saddled up his horse and hurried off to the barracks.

Strange it was that a Thalmor recruiting barracks would be found here in the heart of the Empire. Nevertheless, the Empire had been most accommodating to their Dominion conquerors: allowing them to have embassies in Cyrodiil, Skyrim and High Rock, and their agents to have free reign to do whatever they believed was in the best interest of peace, mutual cooperation and understanding and the upholding of the White-Gold Concordant. And nowhere was this liberal attitude more prevalent than in Cyrodiil, the heart of the Empire. While the commoners and rabble-rousers certainly took umbrage with their conquerors brazenly swaggering about their cities, the Elder Council, the Synod and the House of Nobles were of more cosmopolitan sensibilities. They permitted the Thalmor to have offices in the Imperial City and counties friendly to the Synod, to let their agents roam freely throughout the Empire without let or hindrance and to build recruiting barracks for new agents from Valenwood and Elsweyr: these were useful, but the Altmer would rather die than let the Bosmer or Khajiit - allies though they were - to defile their sacred Alinor, the Summerset Isles.

When confronted by those who were of less cosmopolitan sympathies but had a stronger interest in the welfare of the Empire, these claimed that the Thalmor had no malignant interest in Cyrodiil, that they were only there to foster goodwill and friendship. Oftentimes they would 'clandestinely' confide that they permitted the Dominion to play within the Empire for the sole purpose of spying on them and learning their secrets in preparation for the next war to come. But a little thought would prove this to be nothing more than a base falsehood: humans were not allowed on the premises of the Thalmor embassies, recruiting offices or headquarters without the express permission of the Ambassador and or the High Justicar.

It was now late afternoon as the Bosmer Penitus Oculatus agent approached the recruiting offices in the Walled Approach. The guards moved to stop his approach, but he spoke the password and told them that he had an urgent message to be delivered to the Ambassador's eyes and her eyes alone. The guards let him in and an aide appeared to guide him to the training courtyard. There, in broad daylight, Lady Arannelya was pacing back and forth in front of a regiment of new recruits. Some of them were Bosmer and Khajiit, who would never have the privilege of wearing the black and gold robes of the Thalmor justicars, but they were to be used for other purposes as well. As she walked among them, she spoke as if she was once again addressing Dominion soldiers.

"'To kill Man is to reach Heaven,'" Lady Arannelya recited. "'From where we came before the Doom Drum's iniquity. When we accomplish this, we can escape the mockery and long shame of the Material Prison.' These words were spoken to me when I was sworn into the Thalmor ruling class upon my majority. You may ask yourselves what this means to you. Well, I will tell you. These words mean that, from this day forward, you renounce all human rulers and all those who do not accept and subject themselves to the Divines-given authority of the Aldmeri Dominion and the natural-born supremacy of the Altmer race. That all those who preach that man may become divine, or that man is equal to mer, or that man, by right of nature or divine blessing or military prowess, may rule freely and independently from and of mer are heretics who will surely die in their follies.

"That you will do all within your power to help, assist and advise the Thalmor agents in any place wherever they may be, doing your utmost to extirpate the heretical doctrines and destroy all their pretended powers, regal or otherwise. That you must, for your greater purpose, publicly renounce your connection to the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion and assume the heretical faiths to gain their trust: notwithstanding, you will keep all counsels of the Thalmor agents secret and private, divulging nothing by word, writing or circumstance, directly or indirectly.

"That you will have no opinion of your own, no will of your own and no mental reservations whatsoever, but will, without hesitation, obey each and every command given to you by your Thalmor superiors. That you will go to any part of Tamriel where you are sent: the frozen regions of Skyrim, the burning sands of Hammerfell, the jungles of Black Marsh, the centers of 'civilization' in Cyrodiil and High Rock, or to the wild haunts of the barbarous savages of Morrowind. That you will go there without murmur or repining, submissive in all things commanded to you.

"That, should and when an opportunity presents itself, you will make and wage relentless war, secretly or openly, against all humans and their allies, whether mer or beast-folk, to extirpate and exterminate them from the face of the Nirn, sparing neither age, sex nor condition. That you will hang, waste, boil, flay, strangle, bury alive and rip open the stomachs and wombs of women and crush their infants' heads against the walls, in order to annihilate forever the execrable race of men. That, when this cannot be done openly, you will secretly use the poisoned cup, the noose, the knife or the magical curse in which you may be instructed, regardless of rank, honor, dignity or authority of the person or persons, whatever may be their condition in life, whether public or private, as you may at any time be instructed to do by an agent of the Aldmeri Dominion."

"Lady Arannelya!" the Bosmer cried out.

Arannelya's head darted swiftly to the Bosmer, after which she dismissed those before her, then walked over to the diminutive elf, staring down her nose at him as she would a human, though these were even shorter than average humans.

"What is so important that you interrupt my training?" she demanded.

"I bring word, my lady," he replied. "Word from Skingrad."

"Give it to me at once!" she demanded again. The Bosmer held up a missive on a roll of parchment, which Lady Arannelya snatched up and hastily read. A knowing grin appeared on her thin, yellow face.

"This is good," she said. "There are those in his close confidence who value peace and safety over loyalty. I must arrange for this to be carried out. My hand must not be seen in this matter." She turned to the little wood elf below her. "Are you waiting for some kind of token of my gratitude? Go find a human baby to eat: I'm sure you can break into a house and have its parents dragged off to the Bastion. You're Penitus Oculatus, no one will question your authority. Now leave me in peace: this is going to take a very long while and I must not be interrupted."

* * *

It was evening on the fourteenth day of Frostfall, and the heat of the day was finally gone. The little group, now a small company of eleven - Crixus, Petruvius, Lethia, Viator, Boderic, Larth, Drogon, Casmar, Aelina, Quintus and Alcedonia - arrived at the outskirts of the town of Hackdirt. As usual, Drogon was dismissed until the morning as the ten of them walked into the Moslin Family Inn and ordered two rooms. Five would go into each room, with Quintus and Larth sleeping in the women's room on the floor. While Aelina said nothing, Alcedonia was not pleased with the arrangement.

"I am _not_ having some strange man sharing the same room as me!" she demanded.

"Doni," Quintus interjected.

"No, I am a member of the House of Nobles, dammit!" she retorted. "I don't share a room, especially with a man!"

"Afraid, are you?" Aelina asked.

"Aren't you?" Alcedonia queried. "Alone in a dark room with two men..."

"Doni, it's me, remember?" Quintus spoke up. "We used to share a room together as children. I'm here."

"And as for the little bald slave," Lethia authoritatively noted. "He's so weak that even a child could overcome him."

"What's your problem, you two?" Alcedonia asked Aelina and Lethia. "Gods, he's a _man!_ I mean, you're acting like Nords, unafraid to sleep with anyone!"

"Since you are young and know no better," Lethia purred. "I will ignore your insulting words."

"I've never met a Nord before," Aelina stated. "But no man has ever touched me. And I have no fear in this matter. You should be less fearful, since you sleep in our presence."

Alcedonia did not seem to be very appreciative of this compromise, yet she agreed to it nevertheless. After the rooms were settled, they went to the common room and pulled together two tables for their company. Crixus did not intend for two more mouths to be added to the amount of money he had, and was worried that this meal alone would take most of his ill-gotten funds. As if knowing this, Aelina offered to buy for herself and for the young knights. Before long, large platters of bread and meat were placed in the center of the table and tankards for everyone. They all drank heartily, though Viator and Crixus drank the most.

"I wish there was a Nord right here, right now," Viator muttered. "I wager I'd out-drink even one of them."

"Ah, fuck the Nords," Crixus retorted. "If there was a Nord here and now, I'd drive a dagger through his throat and laugh as the big fucker choked on his own blood. Ah, such an easy way to take down so massive and 'strong' a beast."

"I've heard things about Nords, nephew," Alcedonia stated. "I've heard that the women have no fear and sleep with whomever they wish. Is this so?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Crixus replied. "Why any self-respecting man or mer would actually _want_ to fuck a fat, hairy Nord woman is beyond me. I'd much rather fuck a sload, personally. But they are as vile as their men and just as savage and masculine."

"We may need the help of the Nords in time, sir," Petruvius spoke up.

Crixus lowered his gaze, glaring at his squire from beneath his brow and muttering 'Don't fucking remind me'. His demeanor changing, Crixus turned instead to Quintus and Alcedonia. "So, you ran away from home, eh?"

"To be honest with you, nephew," Alcedonia began with an air of pride. "_I_ decided to run away. Quintus chose to follow after me and I accepted."

"Why?" Crixus asked, his mind going at once to his own experience with his brother Venerius. "As the elder of the two, would it not be irresponsible to lead your younger sibling into death and danger?"

"I'm not that young!" Quintus interjected. "And I can fight just as well as she can. We both had the same teacher."

"I was against his going with me at first," Alcedonia stated. "But after long debate, I finally accepted him as my squire. Then, after a battle or two, he became a knight with me."

"Under whose authority?" Crixus asked. "You are not a lord, to knight people as you wish."

"I am of the House of Maro," Alcedonia retorted. "I knighted him in the name of our auntie Selvia, Countess of Anvil. And it has turned out for the best, as I have seen." She then lifted the cup of Surilie 200 to her lips and sipped therefrom.

"What made you decide to leave Anvil?" Crixus asked. "Your family seems to have it nice there."

"They're _your_ family too," Alcedonia replied. "And, like the others, I have been raised to love and honor my family. But, as members of the House of Nobles and citizens of the Empire, we have a responsibility to protect and defend her people. And if the Elder Council will not do it, then those who have the strength to do so must do what they must."

"Gods, don't tell me you're another one," Crixus groaned. "Another one of these treasonous fools who has no respect for the House of Nobles."

"I respect the House of Nobles, as we all do," Alcedonia replied. "But my desire, as a Knight of the Noose, is to serve the people of Cyrodiil as a weapon of righteousness."

"I told you, Doni," Quintus interjected again. "We're not the Knights of the Noose! We're the Knights of the Golden Bulwark!"

"That's a terrible name," she retorted. "Too...shiny."

"Too shiny?" Viator asked incredulously. "You're gonna refuse a name because it's too fucking shiny?"

"A noose is a symbol of execution, of sentencing," Alcedonia retorted, unperturbed by Viator's crass retort. "I chose that device because I want my enemies to fear us, just as the reprobate fears the noose that will end his life."

"And I say," bespoke Quintus. "That a noose will scare those we're trying to protect and serve! Everyone loves gold, gold is a sign of wealth, of nobility. A golden bulwark would be a glorious charge, to which the people will rally."

"We didn't leave the court of Anvil," Alcedonia returned. "Just to lord our wealth over everyone."

"What's wrong with that?" Aelina asked. "If you've been given great wealth, why should you not flaunt what you have? Impress the people, show them what nobility truly is!"

"My auntie believed," Alcedonia replied. "That people would respect the nobility if they spent their wealth not on themselves, but on those who served them. Selvia Maro is a wise woman."

"Who says that?" asked Aelina, a wiry smile on her face. "My father always decried her as a prime example of the folly and ineptitude of the new wealth."

"And who _was_ your father?" Casmar, who had been quietly sipping his tankard, spoke up.

"A very wealthy merchant," said Aelina, her eyes gazing down to her plate. "One of the richest in all of Bravil."

"What was his name?" Crixus asked. At this, Aelina turned her head to Crixus, a discerning look in her eyes.

"Why does it matter?" she retorted.

"Oh, nothing," Crixus shrugged. "I fought in the Siege of Bravil during the Great War. I may have seen him."

"We'll talk about this later," Aelina returned, her voice thin and her jaw clenched.

Alcedonia then turned to Crixus. "Very well, then. You know why I left. Now will you answer my questions? What do you intend to do with us?"

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"Well, you have the ring worn by my father, your uncle," Alcedonia replied. "And I believe you said something about wanting us to return to Anvil. Or am I mistaken? Did Surius give you that ring for another purpose?"

"No," Crixus replied. "It was indeed to bring you back to Anvil. But I have other plans."

"Is that so?" Alcedonia asked, her left eyebrow cocking. "And what other plans are these?"

"I'm a servant of the Emperor Titus Mede II," Crixus replied. "And while he was in Skyrim, he sent me back to Cyrodiil on an important task: to reform the knightly orders. He gave me his authority to form new orders and legitimize those already formed if they swore allegiance to him through his representative."

"You mean you?" Alcedonia asked.

"Until the Emperor sends another," Crixus stated. "Yes, I am his representative."

"And, what, do you want to recruit us?" asked Quintus.

"Yes, I do," Crixus replied. Viator audibly grumbled and lowered his head.

"If you do," Alcedonia leaned in. "It will be as the Knights of the Noose."

"No!" insisted Quintus. "It must be the Knights of the Golden Bulwark. Surely the Emperor's representative will recognize the importance of a good and worthy symbol for our order!"

"I will induct you both as the founders of your own orders!" Crixus interjected, gesturing to each of them in turn. "You, Alcedonia, can be the grandmaster of the Knights of the Noose, and you, Quintus, can be the grandmaster of the Knights of the Golden Bulwark."

"Then yes," Alcedonia replied. "I will serve the Emperor."

"And so also will the Knights of the Golden Bulwark!" announced Quintus from his plate.

"Sir, a word, if you please?" Petruvius interjected. Petruvius gesutred with his head to the other end of the common room. Crixus dismissed himself, then followed his squire over to that end of the common room.

"Is there something wrong, Petruvius?" asked Crixus.

"When you told us," said Petruvius. "That you intended to reform the knightly orders, I was of the belief that you were going to have a few orders, maybe one or two, and that these hedge knights you were to meet were to join one order or another. But what is the point of having so many orders that are only one person?"

"Have patience, squire," Crixus chuckled. "More will come in time. The knightly orders will grow and soon there will be knights in shining armor riding about Cyrodiil once again, doing good deeds and fighting the enemies of the Empire."

"If you wish," Petruvius replied. "Now, then, what shall we do..." Petruvius noticed that his lord was gazing at a young bar-maid with a low-cut dress. "Sir, are you listening?"

"Hmm?" Crixus returned. "Oh, yes, you were saying?"

"What shall we do when we arrive at Chorrol?" Petruvius asked.

"We have allies there," Crixus stated. "Perhaps now we will see some real progress brought about in our goal to restore the Mages Guild. Also, the Fighters Guild headquarters is located there. It is part of my main goal to reunite the Empire."

"What do you mean?" asked Petruvius.

"Reforming the Mages Guild and the knightly orders is only the first step," Crixus stated. "The other step will be to break the white Nords, so that they can never again rise up in rebellion and threaten the safety and security of the Empire ever again." He saw Petruvius' face fall down in disapproval. "My decision disappoints you?"

"Sir, if I may speak frankly..." Crixus nodded. "I am a loyal son of the Empire, and I have followed you all this while, despite your behavior against Lethia. While I also believe that Skyrim must be made to pay for their rebellion, it would not be wise to weaken them. They are a source of manpower, which the Empire needs to protect itself from the Dominion."

"I wish that weren't so," Crixus shook his head. He was about to speak again when he saw Viator leave the table and pace off by himself by the bar. At this, Crixus excused himself and walked over to the tall knight.

"You seem troubled, Viator," he stated.

"Don't I?" he returned. "You have the Nine-thumper, the Redguard and now these two children who don't fucking know shite about a real fight. Is this what you want for your knightly orders, Your Eminence?"

"What?"

"Cut the bull-shite," Viator retorted. "We both know you said that I was only here until you found other people, better people, to serve you. Have you found that now?"

"Better people, them?" Crixus asked, thumbing over his back to the table, then laughing. "They're young and inexperienced. Boderic, like Larth, is a means to an end: his holy order of knights will convince the simple and ignorant that the Divines are on my side. Or, in the case of Larth, to reform the animists into something more...moderate, so to speak. Casmar, he's my trump-card, the one I will use to bring Hammerfell back into the fold of the faithful. You, no, my friend, I still need you. And your Knights of the Wolf, isn't it..."

"Lupine," corrected Viator.

"Right, whatever," Crixus dismissed. "They will be reformed in you, and you will see Romulus brought to justice. You can trust my word."

Viator grimaced. "If you say so."

After they finished their meal, they went on to their rooms. Crixus' sleep was disturbed by visions of a stone door with a skull upon it, rivers of blood, and once again the Tower. It stood at the center of his visions, looming upward like a great spear. Even as he gazed at it, a strange, deep, authoritative voice, very similar to that of Thelgil, spoke words that seemed to echo in the darkness. But the words were in a strange language and made no sense to his ears.

"_.nriN fo sretsam eht eb niaga ecno llahs rem dna erom on eb llahs naM .mood ruoy netsah sdeed ruoY .dloterof evah sllorcS ehT_"

The Tower then faded and there was a small hole which Crixus did not look long upon: even a brief glimpse made his eyes throb and his head ache. The vision afterwards faded and he returned to sleep. The second dream saw him hearing once again the faint and distant words, urging him onward.

"_The lost ones must be returned to the fold," it spoke. "It will begin in Chorrol and spread throughout all of Tamriel, until all are once again under the shadow of Sithis._"

No more visions came to Crixus that night.

* * *

In the morning, everyone arose and went about getting together their gear to prepare for the long day ahead of them. According to Alcedonia, their group had made good time, for Chorrol was just a day ahead of them. While Crixus was thus engaged in re-examining his weapons for the journey ahead - as Hackdirt was a small town, they were not forced to check their weapons - Aelina confronted him.

"Last night," she said, her voice grim and serious, no lightness or jesting to be found anywhere. "You asked me about my father."

"Yes, I did," replied Crixus. "I also did a lot of other things last night..."

"Don't be cute with me," she retorted. "Who put you up to that?"

"I-what?" asked Crixus.

"It was Pelagius, wasn't it?" she returned. "That sly fox has been following me since Bravil."

"Why do you think it was him?" asked Crixus.

"Because he's been pursuing me," Aelina stated. "He has contacts within the Thieves Guild, who are my enemies, and through them he has been attempting to find me. Are you in league with him?"

"No, I'm not," lied Crixus. "I just, well..." He sighed, his right hand nervously rubbing his forehead. "Well, it's just that...well, you remind me of someone. That was why I wanted to learn the name of your family: your mother first and foremost, not your father."

"Why my mother?" asked Aelina, her expression softening.

Crixus sighed. Finally he admitted what he hadn't told anyone: not his family, not Elisif, not even Eirik or Petruvius. "I knew a woman years ago, she was...very close to me." He looked up. "I swear you look just like her."

"What was her name?" Aelina asked.

At this Crixus became suddenly hot under the collar and was realizing just how awful the truth would sound once he said it. Then, suddenly, as if to make things worse, Larth walked into the hall where they were and addressed Crixus.

"Sir," he said. "The others have the minotaur."

"Very good!" Crixus retorted. "Now go back outside and wait for me!"

Larth cowered away, then Crixus turned back to Aelina, his head hanging in embarrassment.

"You were saying," she returned.

"Look, it's fucking dumb, alright?" he stated. "And you'd be offended if I said it..."

"Try me," she passive-aggressively replied, crossing her arms below her chest.

Crixus sighed once again, going forward as gingerly as possible. "Well...you see, it was years ago. Probably before you were born, so I don't know...but...her name, that's what you wanted, right?"

"Yes," Aelina nodded.

"That's the trick, though," Crixus uneasily replied. "Because she didn't have a name...or at least, I didn't know her by her name, because she never gave it. She was..." He sighed, burying his face in his hands as he at last muttered: "A camp follower."

Aelina made no response, but her silence made Crixus feel even more uncomfortable than an angry raging thunderstorm of curses.

"I..." stammered Crixus, still tongue-tied.

"It's okay," she replied in a low voice. "Just forget about it, alright?"

"As you wish," Crixus nodded.

Aelina finally left and Crixus breathed a sigh of relief. He feared that the next few moments in her presence would be awkward: he did not wish that to be. She was certainly growing on him in a way that Elisif never could. In regards to her, he saw a wounded woman, one hurt and victimized by those who Crixus hated the most, the Nords: he wanted to help her, to appease her sorrow. But for Aelina, she was not wounded or victimized: instead, she was keeping him on his toes almost every moment with her quick eyes and devious smile. It made him want her all the more, which annoyed him that he had spoken thus.

"Why can't I keep my fucking mouth shut?" It was the first time he had ever asked himself that question.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent in relative silence, the group riding on in a loose formation. Viator was grumpy as usual, while Larth clung to Boderic's back from the back of his horse. Casmar sang in a loud voice songs in the High Yokudan tongue: proud songs about the Far Shores and the endless quest for divinity. Petruvius and Lethia shared a horse, talking quietly by themselves, while Aelina, the Maro children and Crixus rode together in the center and Drogon plodded about behind. All that day, they faced no assaults along the way, and only paused once to eat their food, then return to the road again. They made very good time, and the evening was just beginning to fall when at last they saw the high, tree-clad hills rolling like small mountains to the north and to the west. Nestled within those hills was a walled city, such as was common in Cyrodiil, with many bronze-tiled roofs. So it was that they arrived at last in Chorrol, the town on the foothills of the Colovian Highlands: Drogon was dismissed to run free in the woods, to come when they sounded the horn Crixus had purchased in Skingrad.

They came to the southern gate, which was known as the Fountain Gate, and dismounted from their horses. Here also the city guards, men in blue tabards damasked with the white tree, came forward to take the weapons from Crixus and his comrades. Afterwards they passed into the Fountain Gate and the streets of the city of Chorrol. The streets were very neat, with cobblestone walkways and sidewalks, leaving very little greenery in the ground about them. It seemed even more immaculate than Anvil and certainly in better shape than Skingrad or Kvatch.

Suddenly there was a loud cry and, directly in front of them, by the fountain in the center of the square just before the Fountain Gate, someone collapsed into the fountain while another sped off, a knife glistening in their hands. All those around simply stood still in shock or ran away in fear, screaming and crying. Crixus ran over to the fountain and saw an Imperial woman with a stab wound in her chest and her throat slit, the blood spilling out into the water of the fountain.

"What evil is this?" Boderic, who was following up behind, demanded. "Why has this woman been slain? Where are the guards? If we cannot defend her, why have they failed to do so?"

"Don't complain," Crixus replied. "I've seen more than enough death to last eight lifetimes."

"Doesn't it ever bother you?" Larth, who was shaking at the sight, asked. "This was a person once! She had a life, probably family, people who will miss her."

"The 9th Legion had many such people," Crixus grimly replied. "They gave their lives for the Empire, and no one ever misses them."

Crixus walked on and the others followed him, though Larth remained behind with his hand on the dead woman's body and his head bowed in respect. While the others made their way to the Oak and Crosier, Crixus walked over to Larth, who was still shaking from the death.

"I never wanted to be here," he muttered through tears. "A simple life on a farm in Cheydinhal, that's what my family always had. That's what I was looking forward to: then all of this happened. Dunmer, animists, you. I didn't want any of this, dammit!"

"What did you want?" Crixus asked. "A simple life, an easy life, a meaningless life?"

"It ain't meaningless!" Larth retorted. "It would have been a good life, and that's enough for me."

"So what do you want, then?" asked Crixus.

"I don't want none of this intrigue and secrets," Larth replied. "These elves and knights and beasts. I just want someplace quiet, where I can live out the rest of me life in peace and security."

"Well, my friend," Crixus said, his voice softening as his arm touched Larth's shoulder. "That will not happen with things the way they are now. Only by helping me can you have any chance of having peace and security."

"Is this so?" asked Larth, his eyes still welling with tears.

"I am certain of it," Crixus replied. "Now come, we have work to do."

* * *

As it was the end of the day, they purchased rooms for themselves in the Oak and Crosier and went to sleep. There were no visions that night, for Crixus could not sleep. Seeing someone murdered in broad daylight before his very eyes, and the realization that he felt nothing about it, was strange to him. Had he really killed so many people that death meant nothing to him? Then into his mind came again the many deaths he had on his conscience: all those people who had followed him and had died as a result. He had told himself that he cared about their deaths at first, but what he spoke just now to Larth seemed to prove the opposite. He was only a part of Crixus' great scheme: did that make him expendable, just another piece that could be used and discarded once he had outlived that usefulness?

Thus Crixus spent all that evening and forgot when he finally went to sleep. When he arose, though, he found on his bed a small note. Opening the note, he saw a brief message in a scrawled script.

_Meet me before the Chorrol Fighters Guild Hall between the hours of four and five._

Crixus stowed the letter in his bosom, then went about seeing if the others were awake. Once they were all awake, he told them that they should begin to pitch their tents on the outskirts of the city, since housing them indefinitely at the Oak and Crosier, or even the Grey Mare, would be too expensive. Though they were not very receptive of this arrangement, Alcedonia did not complain: she and her brother shared a tent and that meant she would not have to bunk with any man.

Afterwards, they all went their separate ways. Boderic, Casmar, Viator and the Maro siblings decided to visit the Fighters Guild Hall to train with their arms. Aelina, however, decided that she would be best on her own.

"I have business to attend to here," she stated. "There's money to be made here, and we will need it in time."

After she left, only four people remained standing around the fountain in southern Chorrol: Crixus, Petruvius, Larth and Lethia.

"Just like old times, eh?" Petruvius interjected.

Crixus nodded wordlessly. "While the others are away, we will do as we have done before: go to the inns, seek out those who are willing to serve us as hedge knights. Larth, you're with me."

"As you wish," the bald man nodded.

During the day, Crixus wandered about the town, taking it all in. The town certainly seemed clean enough, though at times there were sudden and unexpected outbursts of violence. A pickpocket might steal from someone, or a knife might be plunged into another, then the perpetrator would scurry off before the guards could catch them. Larth remained close to Crixus all that day, sometimes cowering close to him during such moments.

"Oh, will you man the fuck up?" Crixus retorted.

"They could attack us at any moment!" replied Larth.

"Then you need to learn how to fight," Crixus stated. "If only to defend your own arse."

"I've never killed no man before," Larth demurred.

"And you really should learn how to," Crixus replied. "Especially with the work that we are about to do."

"What if I don't want to do none of that?" asked Larth.

"Well, I'm sorry," Crixus chuckled. "But you don't have a choice in the matter. The way you told it, you have no family back in Cheydinhal, and the animists will want to kill you if they find you again."

"Please, do not remind me," Larth returned.

"I _will_ remind you," Crixus retorted, stepping in front of the shorter man and close to his face. "Because implacable and passive words like yours will destroy everything we've worked so hard to achieve!" He paused, his chest heaving, though he was surprised to hear himself say those words. In other company, it would have been him speaking those same 'implacable' and 'passive' words, perhaps as justification for why he would not change the Empire.

_But that's different,_ he told himself. _What he's doing and what I'm being told to do are completely different things. He's bringing back the foolish and blind followers of these animal cults into the fold of civilization, so that no one may point to them and say that Cyro-Nibenese are no different than Nords: that is good. What I'm being asked to do is to change what is already perfect..._

"Is something wrong?" Larth asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "All is well. Come, we have work to do."

* * *

The 'work' which Crixus had to do was in fact nothing more than simply scouting out the town. He found the Fighters Guild Hall ahead of time, and asked for an audience with the Guild-Master. However, that would have to wait, as he was currently busy and would not be available for another four days time. Wherefore they wandered about Chorrol for a time, idling time as Crixus picked the pockets of anyone he deemed unsuspecting and easy of conquest. Larth looked upon him with disapproval.

"What?" Crixus returned. "We need the money, quite certainly more than they do."

"It's all they have," Larth replied. "And you're taking it right out of their pockets and purses!"

"So?" Crixus retorted with a scoff. "There's plenty of money to go around, and if there isn't, they can always just make more."

"What if someone was stealing from you?" Larth asked. "Would you say the same thing then?"

"No one _can_ steal from me, I'm too clever," Crixus retorted smugly. "If I saw a hand in my pocket, I'd cut it off. Or, if I didn't have a knife, I'd break his head on the cobblestones. "

"So you can keep your money, but no one else can?" Larth asked, a puzzled look on his face. "That don't make no sense."

"You are the last person who should be judging me on anything, Larth," Crixus returned. "The ignorant, the unlearned and the savage have no wisdom to comprehend things beyond themselves: that's just old wives tales and smug, arrogant Nord bull-shite made so they can feel content in their ignorance. But you, Larth, you have no right to judge what I say, being a simpleton yourself. So why don't you just stand back and shut up, eh?"

Nothing more was said on this subject, but Crixus was even more discreet in his theft afterward. Larth might call the guards on him if he saw this going on, the little self-righteous peasant. So he kept quiet about his actions as the hours toiled away until, at last the bell in the steeple of the Chapel of Stendarr tolled four times.

At this, Crixus made his way swiftly to the Fighters Guild Hall. There in the little plaza before the Hall were gathered a large group of people, many of whom were city guards in blue. As they approached the square, Crixus could hear angry voices from the crowds crying and chanting over and over: "Rebel!", "Traitor!", "Renegade!" and "Kill him!" were among a few of the words he caught. With Larth directly behind, Crixus pushed his way towards the doors of the hall, and saw, in the midst of the crowd, several guards holding down a very large man with pale skin and reddish hair. For a moment he feared that it was Boderic, then he saw the man's long hair, braided beard and massive size and knew that it was not him.

Suddenly one stood up from among the crowds, rising up onto the edge of the fountain nearby. He was dressed in the garb of the city guards and, when his hands were lifted up, he spoke.

"Why do you not bow, traitor?" he demanded, speaking to the large man.

"I ain't no traitor," the man replied: he was obviously a Nord by the way his voice sounded. "I never joined the Stormcloaks, I pay taxes the same as all of you, and I'm a loyal servant of the Empire, just like all of you! I ain't got no reason to bow."

Boos and catcalls came from the mob gathered around, as well as gobs of stinking excrement, thrown at the large Nord. The guard leader held up his hands and then turned to the Nord.

"Your kind started a rebellion up in that frozen wasteland of yours," he stated. "Who's to say if you won't cause rebellion right here in beloved Cyrodiil?"

"I ain't no rebel!" the Nord retorted.

"Hold him down!" the guard shouted to his fellows. This he did as the lead guard stepped down and tied a rope around the Nord's mouth. He then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted "Bring out the horses and ropes!", to which everyone in the crowd cheered. After a short while, the sea of people began to part as a horse was brought into the square, all saddled and harnessed. The Nord was stripped, his wrists and neck bound and tied to the horse's saddle, then a hook was driven into his navel and tied to the saddle. Then the horse was struck on the flanks and sent off at a running pace, while the Nord was dragged after it, the hook tearing apart his flesh while the cords on his wrists kept it from eviscerating him.

"Colovian justice, I see," a familiar voice spoke into Crixus' ear. He turned around and saw a hooded figure standing behind him.

"Do I know you?" Crixus asked.

From the figure came a gloved hand, in which sat a tiny black stone. "I told you that I would keep track of you, didn't I?"

"Tiraa?" Crixus whispered. The hooded figure nodded gently. "Well, to answer your question, I would say that this _is_ justice. Nords are predisposed to betrayal and rebellion: weeding them out is a good thing. If a guar has a broken leg, we kill it."

"Well said," she replied.

"You're not shocked?" Crixus asked.

Tiraa laughed. "Such scenes as this were commonplace in Morrowind. On certain boring days, we often hoped that a filthy n'wah would be foolish enough to wander into a district owned by House Redoran or House Dres, though we hated them: if only for the amusement of seeing a lynching. Other times we would send our slaves in on purpose just to see them lynched. It meant nothing to us: we could always buy another one. You n'wahs breed like kwama." Crixus cleared his throat. "My apologies. I forgot to whom I was speaking."

"Well, I'm here," Crixus stated. "So what do you want?"

"Not here," Tiraa shook her head. "And not with that one." Her hand pointed to Larth, who was standing silent at Crixus' right hand.

"Go on," Crixus said to Larth. "I'll meet you back at the camp."

Larth departed, then hooded Tiraa gestured for Crixus to follow her into an alley off from the square. Once they were out of sight, she lifted her hood just enough so that her red eyes could be seen.

"I don't trust that one," she replied.

"Who, Larth?" Crixus asked. "Why not?"

"I have been around you...humans for a long time," Tiraa began. "And in that time, I have known many kinds of humans. This one, whom you call Larth, is a simpleton. And simpletons may be easily coerced with the promises of peace and safety, especially when they are faced with difficult and dangerous tasks. It is best to let the powerful and wise do what must be done, those who are wise enough not to be swayed by empty promises."

"I agree," Crixus grinned.

"I was not soliciting your approval on the matter," Tiraa retorted. "This would have been my opinion whether you agreed or not. Now, then, you'r here, this is good. Are you ready to do what must be done for the good of all?"

"Always," Crixus replied.

"Good," Tiraa grinned. "I will introduce you to Gregor Fraseric, Count of Chorrol. He is a wise man, as far as you humans go, and will see that your attendance at court will be useful. Once I have introduced you, we can begin to rebuild the Mages Guild."

Crixus smiled in return. At last it seemed that something was changing: the wheels were turning and things were now in motion.

* * *

**(AN: I hate hitting ruts like these. I'm leaving so many descriptions off, the story is starting to lag and it feels like a] we're getting nowhere and b] everyone and everything is desensitized. I know i have an obligation to finish this story, as it is part of the _Elder Scrolls _series [and heaven knows i can't stand _C0da_], but there is so little keeping me here. I mean, i enjoy _Skyrim_ because of its Nordic atmosphere and themes, but none of that is in existence here in Cyrodiil. The good part is that this wasn't as long as i feared it would be.) **

**(I tried to make Larth a little sympathetic, though i have no idea if i'm succeeding or not. In contrast, Tiraa - being a wizard - is very sure of her own powers and, if placed in Middle Earth, would, like all of you, it seems, be reluctant to let the One Ring go to Mordor, since she'd be convinced that someone else could use it [namely herself]. She's not as extreme as others i may introduce, but i will do my best to make her separate from Aelina, Lethia and the Maro girl.)**


	34. An Errand of Subterfuge

**(AN: If you liked the appearance of one of the only characters from _Oblivion_ who might still be alive around the events of _Skyrim_, then you're gonna love this chapter [and others that i have lined up]. Speaking of _Oblivion_, i also get to poke yet a little bit more fun at the silliness of, well, you know.)**

**(Also, and this is SURE to piss off more people than my comment about Babbette and the Hero of Kvatch, but here i'm just going to say it outright and unapologetic. I laugh when people say that cliff-racers are superior to dragons just because they are in love with _Morrowind_. Something the size of an albatross [or a pterodactyl, if you want to be liberal on the size of a cliff-racer] is not going to beat something which, as i have stated before in my stories [and which the game has confirmed] is easily a hundred twenty feet long. Even in hordes, how are cliff-racers going to survive a fire breath attack from a dragon? [i think it's stupid that MK and _Morrowind_ had things that were "natural" creatures, not magical ones, who were immune to burning ash that killed EVERYTHING and EVERYONE in real-life instances like Mt. St. Helens and Vesuvius. And it's just as stupid that, just because they can, the daedra - NOT "deedra" as they mispronounced it in _Oblivion_ \- created the fauna of Morrowind.]) **

* * *

**An Errand of Subterfuge**

Crixus returned to their camp that evening, where he counted the money he had made and waited for the others to arrive. One by one they came, first Petruvius and Lethia, who had no luck with their searches.

"Thankfully," Crixus stated. "We might be closer to success than we think."

The others came by slowly, each of them sharing their adventures that day. Those who went to the hall of the Fighters Guild enjoyed themselves with the training, though none of them heard of when Guild-Master Oreyn would see Crixus. Thankfully, none of them had been attacked or harmed in any way.

When the night came, they all slept in their own tents, as before. Crixus found himself wandering through a jungle such as he had never seen before, dense and sweltering in heat. For a moment he paused as he saw a breach in the trees, for directly before him, rising above the jungle, was a great white tower, glimmering in the sun like a tower of silver and gold. As soon as he saw the Tower, he saw the day sky turn into a web of stars. The Tower seemed to rise even higher, until it dominated all of his view: the Tower, he saw, was none other than the White-Gold Tower, the center tower of the Old Imperial City. Crixus awoke, his mind astir with images of the Tower that he had seen. Just what was this Tower and why was it important?

The morning came and Crixus found Petruvius in the door of his tent, telling him that he had a visitor. After dressing himself, Crixus walked out and saw Tiraa standing there in the campground, un-hooded but still wrapped in a brown cloak that made her appear larger than she was.

"The Count has summoned you to his court, Servius Crixus," she proclaimed.

With this knowledge, Crixus took Petruvius with him and then followed Tiraa back into Chorrol. From the fountain where they had seen the attack in broad daylight before, they turned east and made their way through a wide lane up to the gates of Castle Chorrol on the eastern side of the city. Tiraa was known to the guards, who opened the gates before her and allowed her and her guests to enter the great hall and have their audience with the Count.

The great hall was as plain and typical of any Colovian style castle hall. Walls of stone and brick were damasked with blue banners bearing the white tree: the emblem of county Chorrol. A balcony loomed over the throne room, accessed by two staircases which fell down like a horse-shoe on either side of the great hall. A blue rug led to a throne made of ebony wood inlaid with gold, flanked on either side with banners of blue and silver, bearing the white tree. Upon the throne sat a middle-aged Breton man, short of stature and somewhat wide in girth, though not to the depths of gluttony's excess. His face was round and good-natured, and he had short-cut brown hair that was thinning at the top of his forehead. He did not wear the extravagant, gilded garb of the Colovian nobility, but a pair of simple pants and a blue doublet, covered with a gilded cloak in the Colovian style. Aside from the cloak, his garb was very Breton in its modesty.

"My lord!" Tiraa greeted. "Here I have brought you the man of which I spoke before: Servius Crixus, a loyal servant of the Empire, soldier of the Red Legions and co-conspirator in our common goal. Crixus, I bring you before Gregor Fraseric, first of his name, by the grace of the Divines, Count of Chorrol. "

Crixus bowed before the nobleman, who reciprocated with a simple nod of the head. At this, he gestured for Crixus to approach the throne, which he did, coming to a halt at the top stair. Once there, the Count rose from his seat and walked over to Crixus, coming within a touching distance of Crixus' nose.

"Madame Vilenis has told me many good things about you," said Count Fraseric. "She said that you can be trusted in this matter."

"I am a servant of the Emperor," Crixus replied. "My service requires that his power be reunited and consolidated, and to do this, I have deemed it right that the Mages Guild must be reformed."

"Ah, then it is good to have you here," said Count Fraseric, a smile on his face. "Come now, let us eat and drink together as friends and co-workers. We have much to discuss."

Count Fraseric called for his servants and had them prepare food for his guests. While the food was thus being prepared, the Count questioned Crixus on all he knew and all the people he had encountered in his travels. He was most intrigued by Crixus' description of the College of Winterhold in Skyrim.

"They're a savage lot, those Nords," chuckled the Count. "Backwards and ignorant. Their College has yet to come under the sway of their betters. I would not be amiss in surmising that they practice necromancy and the summoning of deedra there, don't they?"

"Well, I didn't spend enough time there," Crixus replied.

"Oh, well," dismissed Fraseric. "Nevertheless, it is good to see that the rogue wizards of Winterhold are spreading the truth. The Fourth Rumaran Council of 182 established that, in accordance with the White-Gold Concordant, the relief of racial tension between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire was of tantamount importance to the goals of the Synod and the College of Whispers."

"This is good," Crixus replied. "Peace between our two countries can only exist if there is mutual understanding and cooperation."

"But, sir," Petruvius spoke up. "Have you forgotten what happened at the Siege of Solitude? Now you want to work together with the Dominion?"

"Silence!" Crixus snapped, then turned to the Count with a dismissive smile. "Please, forgive my squire. He speaks without thinking. Nevertheless, I believe that the Empire should work closely with the Dominion."

"And to foster such ends," said Fraseric. "Certain...inconsistencies must be rectified. For instance, this foolish notion of a human being achieving divinity, that has long bred prejudice, bigotry and contempt between our two races. But it goes back farther than merely Tiber Septim: our whole history is colored with prejudice against mer. If there is only one precept upon which the Synod, the College of Whispers and I agree upon, it is this: that mages, as the sole arbiters of higher learning, have a responsibility to...adjust the histories and learning to re-educate future generations in cooperation and mutual understanding between humans and mer."

"I like your thinking right well, sir," Crixus grinned. "

Such small talk went on for a good long while until their noon meal was ready. A servant appeared to announce that the food was ready, and the three of them went into a high-roofed dining room to eat. There Crixus saw one person sitting there at the table, at the left-hand of the finest seat at the table. The woman was thin and possessed of a high forehead: but her skin was so pale and yellowish that Crixus almost took her for an Altmer.

"This is my ward," Fraseric introduced. "Crixus, allow me to introduce her ladyship Arcadia Valga."

"Valga," Crixus noted. "As I recall, that family was once the ruling house in Chorrol."

"A long time ago, sir," the woman Arcadia replied, rising from where she sat. "But we, being so close to the wild and savage land of Skyrim, have often fallen prey to the barbarians of the North."

Count Fraseric began ordering the servants to prepare the food. Meanwhile, Crixus walked over to the seat where he was told to sit, at the right of the Count's seat. While he was sitting down, he heard Petruvius mutter into his ear.

"What is this about working together with the Dominion?" he asked.

"Relax," Crixus replied. "It's all a ploy. It's best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. We might learn a thing or two about what they're up to if we keep them close." Then, with the smug air of one who thinks he has more knowledge than all the world, Crixus put his forefinger to his nose and grinned slyly.

The lunch they ate was not a heavy one, but for Crixus, who had been on the road quite a while, this was better than dried meat. They drank wine, Surilie 197, and Crixus did not turn down a second, or even a third, helping of this. Their talk all that time was about the Mages Guild and what it had been prior to the Oblivion Crisis.

Formed during the Second Era by the Altmer sorcerer Vanus Galerion, the Mages Guild's purpose was to centralize magic into one place in accordance with the Guilds Act of the Akaviri Potentate that ruled between the Cyrodiils and the Septims. While training, spell-crafting and employment were exclusive to the Guild, the Guild's charter ordained that it must provide services to all. For centuries it remained in place, accepted even by the Septim Dynasty, coming to its final conclusion at the end of the Oblivion Crisis. Many in Cyrodiil feared that the Guild had a hand in the Oblivion Crisis, as it was begun by magic and involved heavily the school of Conjuration.

The Edict of the Common Good saw the dissolution of the Mages Guild in the early years of the Fourth Era, as well as the establishment of the two splinter groups that would carefully police and control magical use throughout the Empire: the Synod and the College of Whispers. These two groups, though often at odds with each other for control and influence among the Elder Council, would meet under peaceful terms at the Old Arcane Academy in the New Imperial City, on the Berth of Strife.

"And what can you tell me," Crixus spoke up. "About the Elder Council?"

"Of the thirty seats on the Council," Fraseric replied. "Many are empty. The seats that once belonged to the Councilors from Hammerfell, Morrowind, Black Marsh, Valenwood, Elsweyr and the Summerset Isles now sit empty. One by one they vanished from the Council Chamber in the White-Gold Tower. Now we hear that the Councilor from High Rock has gone missing on a visit to Skyrim."

"Slain by wild Nords, no doubt," Valga interjected. "Those savages! They seem to have taken a particular hatred for my family. Every generation, a male of my family is killed by them: ripped apart in a manner most bloody and most savage."

"Aye," Crixus sighed. "I know all too well about wild Nords."

"Excuse me, my lord?" Petruvius spoke up. "I couldn't help but notice, when we entered your fine city, that there was an incident at the Fountain Gate. A woman was murdered in broad daylight."

"Yes, yes, I've heard about that," sighed Fraseric. "An unfortunate incident, that. The guards will doubtless do something about it."

"There have been many such incidents in town," Petruvius added. "I have seen them myself, and the guards are nowhere to be found."

"Nonsense!" dismissed Fraseric. "Ever since the Elder Council banned weapons in the city limits, in accordance with the White-Gold Concordant, armed crime has decreased in every county. In fact, the only place where such violent incidents are still common are in backwards provinces where ignorant savages still cling stubbornly to their weapons."

"In a word, Skyrim," grinned Valga in a sickly sweet smile.

"You certainly make much of Skyrim," Petruvius stated.

"Uh, Crixus?" Valga spoke, turning to Crixus. "Why is your servant speaking? His interruptions are _really_ getting on my nerves. I think I have a headache now!"

"He should not be speaking his mind," Crixus replied. "Especially since he knows nothing about what he foolishly speaks of."

"You're a good man, Crixus," Fraseric stated. "Very...agreeable. Tiraa said that you would be a welcome addition to my court. Perhaps she was right? I would like to extend to you a formal invitation to stay at court with me."

"Are you serious, sire?" Crixus asked.

"Well, of course," grinned Fraseric. "There's plenty of room, and we don't have to worry about supplies. You and all who are with you are welcome to stay at the castle for as long as you like. Besides..." He leaned towards Crixus. "Our task of reforming the Mages Guild will be one most dangerous, and it would be best to keep you close, so that our enemies do not take you from us first." He then leaned back and continued into his food. Crixus, meanwhile, realized that Tiraa had vanished.

"Where is Lady Vilenis?" Crixus asked.

"She rarely attends banquets here in the dining hall," Count Fraseric replied. "Always in her study downstairs. Strange, I always thought wizards preferred the solitude of a high tower, not a cold, damp, light-less room under the ground. Now, then, what say you to my generous offer?"

"I accept," Crixus nodded. "But, though, I must ask: you did say that all who are with me are welcome to stay here?"

"As I said," affirmed Fraseric.

"Well, that's the thing, though," Crixus shrugged. "Petruvius is not the only one with me."

"Well, how many are in your company, then?" asked Fraseric.

"Nine."

* * *

To say that moving all of Crixus' companions from their camp-site into Castle Chorrol was a difficult task would be a grievous understatement. Count Fraseric was still in shock and disbelief over the count of nine companions until they all appeared at the gates of the castle. Then the servants began rushing and bundling about to prepare rooms for their guests. During the preparations, Arcadia Valga gazed in awe at the five knights as they walked into the palace, all of them clad in their shining armor: impressive they were, though they had left their weapons with the guards at the Fountain Gate. Once they were all assembled in the main room, Crixus realized that one person was missing. He did a quick head-count of his companions: Petruvius, Lethia, Viator, Boderic, Larth, Casmar, Alcedonia and Quintus. They were all here, yet someone seemed to be missing.

"Strange," Fraseric mused.

"What is strange, my lord?" Crixus asked, his eyes wandering towards a corner of the main hall. Something he had seen in the corner of his eye called his attention, only to disappear as soon as his eyes cast their gaze thither.

"I could have sworn you said there were nine companions in your company," said the Count. "Yet there are only eight here."

"Forgive me, your Highness," Crixus replied. "A mistake on my part."

Once Crixus and his eight companions were assembled, they were given rooms according to their preference. Petruvius spoke for Lethia, who was once again hooded and refused to speak with anyone she deemed beneath her: he requested a room with a window for both of them, which was granted. The others all received rooms of their own, and Count Fraseric greeted Alcedonia and Quintus warmly and with many bows and proper styling. Once everything was in readiness, the five knights dismissed themselves to train at the Fighters Guild hall while Crixus and the others remained behind. It was during this time that one of the servants approached Crixus and gave him a written note with very specific instructions upon it.

'_We must talk privately,_' said the note. '_Go to the dungeon levels, ask the jailer for the mage's quarters. Once you reach the end of the passageway, there will be a door. Take two steps forward, one step to the left, three steps backward, two steps to the right, one step forward and then one step to the left._'

Crixus seemed confused at first, but pocketed the note and asked Count Fraseric to be dismissed. After being given this, he asked for directions to the dungeons. Fraseric sent a soldier to lead him thither. Outside they went and into the courtyard, then a left towards the barracks. From there they went right and down a flight of stairs into the dungeon level. At a table by the entrance to the dungeon level sat the jailer, who, when Crixus asked for the mage's quarters, knowingly nodded at him, then produced a key from a chain that hung around his neck.

"Go down the hall until you reach the end," he said. "Once you're there, stick this into the crack in the masonry. Remember to bring it back here, or a stay in one of my cells will be the least of your worries, heh." He let out a toothless, mocking grin which made Crixus roll his eyes and shake his head: that man must be a Nord, considering how he behaved. He was Colovian.

Through the door in the jailer's office he went and down another flight of stairs into a long, dark prison tunnel with many cells on either side. At the end of the long tunnel there was a flat stone wall with a smooth face: only one tiny spot, roughly at his breast, had a crack in the mortar. Into this spot he placed the key, to which, when he did, the wall slid back and revealed another passage, winding down a spiral staircase. Down the stairs he went, then through the empty passageway. It was not lit, and Crixus had to summon his candlelight to illuminate his path. The tunnel also seemed never to end, going first straight on, then seeming to come to an abrupt end, only to turn sharply to the left. After another long straight-away, the tunnel turned left again, then straight again for a while, before turning left one last time. By this time, he realized that he had come in a long 'circle'.

But the passageway did not return to the staircase: instead it came to an abrupt halt with a door directly left. Crixus turned about, then began to approach the door but halted. He noticed several pits in the wall, narrow slots in the floor and, casting his eyes behind him by chance, saw that the opposite wall was blackened as if with fire. By this he perceived that Tiraa Vilenis had taken precautions to make sure that those who even managed to steal the key from the jailer came not into her private chambers without passing through her deadly traps. Now the confusing instructions made sense.

"Clever woman," Crixus grinned.

Looking down, he saw that the floor was lined with tiles, in the Colovian fashion, but none of them bore any specific mark or sigil. Therefore, taking once again the note to examine, he took two small steps forward from where he stood. Each step made the tiles depress into the floor with a soft 'clink', as if he was already setting the triggers for each of the traps set for those foolish enough to come down here. His first instinct was to turn back, but instead, reading the letter, he took a step to the left. This tile clicked as well. Very carefully, Crixus took three steps back, each step clicking just as the last one had done. Crixus' palms were sweating and his nerves were on edge: he knew not if he was indeed following the only safe way into the chamber beyond the door. He had half a mind to turn back.

Instead, he wiped his hands on his traveling clothes, swallowed hard and took two steps to the right. Each tile clicked with the steps he made, but thankfully he was nearing the end. Click click went his last two steps, one forward and the other to the left. A serious of clicks and sliding noises was heard, then a light appeared upon the door, like a soft, glowing rune marking where the door was. Crixus walked forward and found that the door was not locked: he made his way into the room and saw Tiraa seated at a table, looking at something close at hand.

"Tiraa?" Crixus spoke up. "I came as you instructed."

The Dunmer woman looked up, then hurriedly covered what she was looking at with a gaudily embroidered cloth, then rose from her seat and approached Crixus.

"Indeed you have," she replied. "And I see that you followed my instructions to the letter. Good, very good. You're not as dumb as the other _n'wahs_ around here."

"Was it all really necessary?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, it was necessary," Tiraa replied, a bit too sharply. "All of it! The Synod and the College of Whispers have been tracking my movements for centuries, I cannot let my location be the topic of every corner-club in Cyrodiil, or whatever you n'wahs call places where you drink shein, matze, flin and sujamma."

"Did I come at a bad time?" Crixus returned.

"Don't get saucy with me!" she grumbled. "I spent six years planning, building and fine-tuning the traps you had to get through to get to me. A grain of sand in a desert, I know, compared to how long I've lived, but it was all worth it. You see, the first step you took set the trap in place. A single step backward and you'd be incinerated. Each consecutive step forward set another trap, which would have torn you to pieces if you stepped back then. Only by going exactly as I had instructed, in the order which I set, could you reset the whole trap, so that you might step forward in safety."

"That seems...very confusing," Crixus replied.

"Hmph, of course _you_ would think that," Tiraa grumbled. "I wouldn't expect a feeble-minded _n'wah_ to understand the true art of trap-making. Now, then, down to business, shall we? I have many things on my plate and my time is valuable, hmm? Take a seat, come on now!"

Crixus hurriedly took a seat at the only other seat in the room: a tiny stool which he had to drag over to the table where Tiraa took her seat behind it. Looking all around, he saw that her office was filled with many books, magical artifacts, staves, wands, potions, and memorabilia which he instantly recognized as belonging to Morrowind and House Hlaalu. The walls had many tapestries, as was custom in Vvardenfell during the late Third Era, gaudily bedecked and embroidered with scenes from their history. Here and there were images of St. Nerevar, the Old Tribunal, and in one corner was a new banner, such as Crixus had not seen before. Upon the banner was a shield, misshapen after the fashion of Morrowind armor made from brittle insect chitin and clay-like molded bone-meal, and upon the shield were the sigils of House Hlaalu: six ovals with a single dot in the center, all of them surrounding a pair of unbalanced scales. This was none other than the banner of the Shield of Hlaalu, of which Crixus had only heard rumor in both Mournhold and in Skyrim.

"Now, then, I have an errand for you, if you don't mind," Tiraa stated. "It concerns the reforming of the Mages Guild, yes, but it also involves things which affect both of us. Tell me, have you ever heard of House Sadras?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "There was quite a bit of them in Mournhold while I was prefect there. They opposed the continuing presence of the Empire in Morrowind, even though our presence was only a small one, a token one. They were as bad as House Redoran and what's left of House Dres as far as their relations with others went."

"Indeed," Tiraa stated. "They are the Secret House, the Supplanters, as we who belong to the Shield of Hlaalu call them. They claim to have an interest in our people, yet they have more interest in affairs outside of Morrowind than within it. The Sarys family are very powerful and influential among them, have you heard of them?"

"Yes, I have," Crixus returned. "There was one in Windhelm."

"The Countess of Cheydinhal is also a member of House Sadras," replied Tiraa. "She booted the Synod out of Cheydinhal, and two months later the plague erupted there. As if that were not enough, ever since she took power, law and order in Cheydinhal have collapsed. Riots, rapes, fires, lynching and robbery are common-place, even more-so than here in Chorrol. By comparison, Chorrol is a place of peace and safety!"

"Hmm," Crixus mused. "So what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, that all depends on your point of view," Tiraa stated. "As long as House Sadras holds Cheydinhal in its grasp, the east will remain as dangerous as Skyrim. And didn't a Sarys recently take the n'wah city of New Gnisis?"

"So?" Crixus shrugged. "The Dunmer must have their retribution against the white race. It is justice, nothing more, and the Empire will not interfere with that justice."

"But surely for the security of your own empire?" asked Tiraa. "County Cheydinhal has the largest land in Cyrodiil, and it borders mainland Morrowind. Surely the loss of such a large amount of Imperial territory would be a threat to your Empire, wouldn't it?"

"Loss?" Crixus asked. "What are you talking about? All you've mentioned is lawlessness, not insurrection."

"If you ever spent much time in Cheydinhal," Tiraa replied. "You would know just what Countess Sarys wants to do, and it goes in direct opposition to the aims of the Shield of Hlaalu."

"And what does the Shield of Hlaalu want exactly?" Crixus asked.

"Many things," Tiraa began. "Unlike the narrow-minded traditionalists of House Dres and House Redoran, the Shield of Hlaalu maintains and promotes the ideals of the Empire, such as multiculturalism and mutual cooperation towards a common good. We believe that the Empire and the Great Houses of Morrowind must put aside their differences and work together to rebuild our country. The Shield of Hlaalu has been working tirelessly on a great relief effort to bring goods, mer, flora and fauna back to Vvardenfell to rebuild what the Red Mountain took from us."

"Indeed?" Crixus asked, his interest. "The Dunmer want to return to Vvardenfell?"

"Not all of us," Tiraa returned. "At the very best, the other Great Houses believe such efforts are in vain. At the worst, their agents have done everything they blame of us to keep the relief effort from taking place: theft, blackmail, murder. This is why we have consistently failed to return to Vvardenfell in the centuries after the Red Mountain. Many of us believe that, with the Empire's help, we will be strong and secure enough, financially as well as politically, to finally return to our native home."

"Indeed?"

"Is this not what you want?" asked Tiraa.

"Oh, it is, it is!" Crixus returned. "Why, the stories I heard in Mournhold about the glories of Vvardenfell made me want to see it as it was in the days of the Old Tribunal. I have often wondered why the Dunmer have not tried sooner to return to Vvardenfell."

"The Shield of Hlaalu," replied Tiraa, an uncomfortable look on her face. "Is...a minority among the Dunmer. Many are content with the 'hospitality' of you _n'wahs_. Heh! More like slavery."

"How can you say that?" Crixus asked. "I've been to the Shield Quarter: the Imperial guards are too scared to step in when there is a riot among the Dunmer. They own the entire district, now how can you call that slavery?"

"Are you also as narrow-minded and bigoted as House Redoran and the white n'wahs of Skyrim?" Tiraa retorted.

"Alright!" Crixus retorted. "I won't say another word! Gods, you weren't like this before!"

"I'm a busy mer!" Tiraa replied. "And I've just received word that one of my most important contacts in Cheydinhal was imprisoned. I see the hand of House Sadras behind this. I was hoping that, based on your past, you would have an interest in the welfare of the Dunmer."

"And I do," Crixus returned. "I only wish you'd be a little bit tactful and courteous towards me, that's all."

"I'm over three hundred years old," Tiraa retorted. "I gave up caring about tact and courtesy years ago."

"Ah, I see," Crixus chuckled. Then suddenly it dawned on him something which he had almost forgotten. "Wait a minute, based on my past? Just how much do you know about my past?"

"Quite a bit, really," said Tiraa. "I have my sources, but those are not important right now. What matters is your answer: will you help the Shield of Hlaalu?"

"Of course," Crixus returned.

"Then here is what we shall do," replied Tiraa. "I will draw up a new charter for the Mages Guild, one that will be mutually beneficial to all of Cyrodiil...and Morrowind. And, hopefully, will be the prelude to peace between our great nations."

"And what do you expect from me?" asked Crixus.

"Oh, a great deal," she replied, an interested grin on her face. "Your friend, the one who conveniently vanished when the Count gave your friends permission to stay in the castle, she might be useful. One thief is good, a whole guild of them are better."

"But I don't know the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil," Crixus retorted.

"But she does," Tiraa returned. "The original charter is kept in the Grand Library of the Arcane University, under guard of the Synod currently. I doubt it would be a great task for one of her skills; it should be child's play for a whole guild of thieves. Once I have the charter, I will begin writing out the new one."

"So I recruit th...the Thieves Guild," Crixus replied, his own mind wondering who this other one was that Tiraa spoke of. "And have them steal the Mages Guild charter so you can write another one? Is that all?"

"Not quite," she returned. "I was watching your company when you came into the Count's hall. Your friend Lethia is a mer: I could discern this merely by watching her stance. She walks as a queen among _n'wahs_: only a mer could walk with such grace and pride. I also sensed that she is a very powerful sorceress: if that is true, I would like to make her acquaintance, have her down here and teach her what I have to offer."

"I'll see what I can do," Crixus returned. "Is there anything else?"

"Oh, yes, quite a bit," Tiraa stated. "But for now, I can't think of them. So be off with you. And remember to tell Lethia of my desire to speak to her."

Crixus left the dungeons confused, but otherwise hopeful. During his voyage on the Red Dog, he had all but forgotten about what he was to do when he returned. Being unfamiliar with court and political intrigue, his goal had been to find General Tullius and inform him of his version of the Emperor's wishes. But in truth, he wanted to drink his life away in the Newland Hall in Cheydinhal: that was all of Cyrodiil that was familiar to him, more so than his own home, and that was all he wanted. After all, with no political background and little hope in his own blood, Crixus had wanted to forget his obligation and drown himself in drink. Much better and easier.

But now he had a clear goal and something of the means to get to that goal. No longer was he aimless and without direction: with the Mages Guild on his side and already five knights, it seemed as though he was poised to effect real change. It gave him hope that, perhaps, he could finally see the world brought about as he wanted it to be, but it was also frightening. Having that much power: could he handle it? Often when faced with such power, such as his Dragon-blood, he refused it. But what about now?

* * *

Crixus went to see Lethia as soon as possible, but was interrupted by Count Fraseric, who insisted that he attend him while he sat in his hall and saw petitions. All day he listened as the Count heard petitions and gave his answers to them. Not until the day was far spent and dinner was served that Crixus was dismissed. The others had not yet returned from their business, though Petruvius and Lethia had not left their room. Crixus sought them out and found them still in the room, Petruvius with his armor off, polishing it, and Lethia gazing out at the window.

"Is all well?" Crixus asked. "I wish I had been here sooner, but the Count insisted that I sit with him while he was at court."

"All is well, sir," Petruvius replied. "Although I wish we had done while you were away."

"There's no need," Crixus stated. "I know now what we must do. Tomorrow I will try to contact Lucan again. Maybe we can find the Thieves Guild together and requisition their aid."

"Why would we need their help, sir?" asked Petruvius.

"Why? For something big, squire," Crixus returned. He then turned to the Snow Elf. "What about you, Lethia? You've been awfully quiet since I came in."

"Would you rather I speak?" she asked grumpily. "Once it was that my very words provoked you to so great anger, you would strike me in your rage. Do you wish to strike me again?"

"No, not right now," Crixus returned. He then turned to Petruvius and whispered: "What's wrong with her?"

"I can hear you, you know," she snapped. "Keep no secrets from my presence, slave."

"Alright, then, why are you acting like such a little b*tch?" Crixus retorted. "I thought you, of all people, would be above such petulant behavior."

"What does my behavior matter?" she asked, in a distant voice. "What does any of this matter? The gods have forsaken me: I have not heard their words, nor felt their presence."

"Yeah?" Crixus returned. "That's because they're not fucking there!" With a confident nod and a grin, Crixus turned to leave.

"And I hate this damned country!" she retorted.

"What?" he spun on his heel.

"It's people are fools and the land is boring," she retorted. "Everything everywhere is green. Nothing but plains and meadows as far as the eye can see, and these boring stone prisons might as well be the deep halls of the earth. And it's hot! Gods, I can barely breathe in this weather!"

"What the fuck do you mean, 'it's hot?'" Crixus retorted. "This is the perfect weather! It's your damned Skyrim that's too fucking cold. And how dare you call the great Colovian castles 'boring stone prisons', or-or complain that this beautiful fucking country is...is...too green? What would you prefer, the gray, bleak, lifeless shite-hole of Skyrim? This is my home you're hating!"

"Should I care what a slave thinks?" Lethia retorted. "Now leave me be."

"Fine," Crixus snapped, eager to have the last word. "I just wanted to come up here and tell you that the court mage, Tiraa Vilenis, wanted to see you. But no, I don't think you deserve to hear what she had to say." Without waiting for her response, Crixus slammed the door shut and walked out into the corridor.

That evening, Crixus went to sleep as usual. But he had scarce kept his head on the pillow long enough for sleep to overcome him when he suddenly became aware that someone or something else was inside his room. Instinctively he reached for a knife, only to remember that he was not permitted weapons and had none. From the darkness he heard a voice shush him, then the sound of the door being locked.

"You shouldn't have come here," a strange voice replied. In one end of the room, a candle was lit, flooding the room with its soft glow. The figure removed its cowl, then, taking the candle in hand, walked over to Crixus. As soon as the light fell upon the face, all the memories came rushing back to him.

"Aelina!" he returned. "Wha-What happened? You were in the camp when I left, then you weren't there when the others came to the castle."

"I had no other choice," Aelina replied. "You almost gave me away."

"Gave you away?" Crixus asked. "How..."

She sighed. "It's a long story."

"We certainly have the time, don't we?" asked Crixus.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Aelina replied with a question. "Haven't you been spending time with Pelagius?"

"Listen, don't worry about him, okay?" Crixus returned. "I'm here, tonight, and it's just you and me. No one else, alright? Lucan, or Pelagius, or whatever you want to call him, he's not here. He doesn't need to know."

"That's not good enough," she replied. "I'm about to give you the biggest secret in my life."

"Very well, very well," Crixus returned. "We spent quite a bit of time together. You know that I never tried to force myself upon you..."

"Because you knew I'd kick your arse," she retorted.

"The point is that I never tried," Crixus replied, agitated. "Because I care about you...uh, I mean, your honor. I wish I had met you first, then perhaps my time in Cyrodiil wouldn't be so damned depressing."

"You...you care?" Aelina replied. "About me?"

"About your honor," Crixus stated. "I mean, you're not exactly, well..."

Aelina grinned. "And you do know that I'm the Grey Fox, so it's not as though we haven't shared secrets already, is it?"

"But I don't even really know who you are," Crixus returned. "But I will tell you something. I'll share a secret with you in return for you doing the same for me."

Her grin widened. "Alright, then. Go ahead. Tell me your secret."

Crixus sighed, rubbed his eyes, then began. "You remember when I was angry and said 'I'm the Emperor'?" Aelina nodded. "Well, it wasn't just a slip of the tongue. I actually am the Emperor."

Aelina chuckled. "You're teasing me, Crixus. You can't be the Emperor. Even though you say you're older than you look, you can't be Titus Mede II."

"I never said I was Titus," Crixus replied. "But I am the Emperor."

"But Titus is the Emperor," Aelina returned, her voice trailing off until her eyes suddenly widened with realization. "Are you saying it's true?"

"What's true?"

"I have contacts in the Old City," Aelina replied. "They were there when the Emperor returned from his journey to Skyrim. They said that the Emperor never left the _Katariah_: they said a body-double was escorted into the White-Gold Tower and has remained there ever since. Are you saying that Titus is dead?"

"Yes," Crixus sighed. "He is dead. And I am the new Emperor."

Aelina's narrow eyes widened even greater and she took a step back. At this, Crixus rose from his bed and held one hand up in a gesture of peace.

"I didn't kill him," Crixus lied. "But I was given his blessing to succeed him in return for the duty I gave to him while in Skyrim."

"I don't believe you," she returned, then scoffed. "What Emperor would give up his title so easily? And only to one who did great service to him? If that were even the case, shouldn't the title go to General Tullius, the hero of the civil war, and not some nameless man of no family or repute?"

"I do have a family name," Crixus returned. "The Blades found it to be significant..." He then sighed. "...and so did the Emperor."

"The Blades are no more," she stated. "The Dominion wiped them out during the Great War."

"Not all of them," Crixus confidently replied. "I met the last members of the Blades in Skyrim. They revealed to me...and the Emperor, that I was descended in secret from a lost member of the Septim family."

Aelina was quiet for a moment, then seemed to gasp in surprise. "That's...that's incredible! It-It's hard to believe."

"I know," Crixus replied. "And that is why I have not made this knowledge public, and it is also why I have kept it secret. I want to be recognized as Servius Crixus, not as Servius Septim or whatever name they'll strap on me."

"No, there has to be more to this," Aelina stated. "There were no lost Septims, at least as far as I know. They were all wiped out during the Oblivion Crisis."

"I know," Crixus stated. "And I can't even remember the whole details right now, there's so much in my mind. Listen, I will ask only this of you: come with me to Bruma. There's a priory there, I believe, belonging to the Cult of the Dragon. You will hear the whole tale of my lineage there, and if then you are not satisfied, you may go your way."

"I've heard of the Cult of the Dragon," Aelina returned. "They're certainly real enough. But as for this secret..."

"Shh!" Crixus hissed, realizing that they were getting loud. "It's a matter of life or death. Promise me that you won't say this to anyone."

"Alright, I promise," she replied, a bit hastily. For reasons beyond his immediate understanding, Crixus accepted her words without further scrutiny.

"Very well, tell me your secret," he asked.

Aelina scoffed. "Please, that wasn't a secret you told me. It was a story."

"That was a very serious secret!" Crixus hissed.

"Not as important as what I have," she unknowingly retorted.

"Alright, fine," Crixus, whose frustration was building at how easily she dismissed what he had shared, returned. "You want something better? How about this? I killed my own cousin, the son of my nephew, who was in the Penitus Oculatus."

Aelina came to a halt, her eyes narrowing with scrutiny again. "Come now, you can't be serious. You, kill an Oculati?"

"Yes," Crixus sighed. "I killed him with my own hands. He was of my family, the Maro family."

"You're related to the Maro family?" asked Aelina.

"On my mother's side," Crixus replied.

"This _is_ a great secret," she stated. "One worth keeping, I see. And you trust that I won't tell this to anyone?"

Crixus sighed. "I'm extending trust to you, the same way you showed me trust in letting me stay in your house in the Imperial City alone for seven days."

Aelina sighed. "I suppose I can't argue with that, can I?" After a long period of time, she finally sighed and began to speak.

"I put the Grey Fox mask on when the Count's servants came to invite us to the castle," she began. "I didn't want anyone to know, or even remember, as much as my name. You see, when you're someone like me, you tend to meet the nobility quite often. Names become remembered, faces connected with names. Of all the places I've ever been, a nobleman's castle is the most dangerous for me, especially now."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "What would a merchant's daughter have to fear from a nobleman, especially one like Fraseric?"

"I'm not a merchant's daughter," Aelina retorted, averting her gaze. "I lied to you about that. My father was...someone else."

"Who was he?" Crixus asked.

"Listen, you have to promise me never to tell anyone this secret," Aelina replied. "Otherwise I'll don the mask and wear it until I die: you'll never see me again, never remember a thing about me, or our time together."

"You'd do that?" Crixus asked. "Why?"

"To protect my identity," she returned. "And that of my father. I wanted to keep his name clear of any implication in the things that I would do. You see, there's already a sea of rumors and speculations about what he does behind his closed doors." She scoffed. "People think that he's like some kind of sload, waddling about, planning things slowly and in secret. The truth is much more depressing: he's not the man he was in his youth, but he refuses to believe that. And..." She sighed. "...he would have me take his place when he dies, become..."

"Become what?" Crixus asked.

"Countess," she returned.

"Wha...you're a noblewoman?" Crixus asked. "O-Of which house? Obviously not House Hassidlor, Maro or Romulus. You don't look like a Breton, and you're certainly not a Nord or Dunmer."

Aelina nodded. "You're very perceptive. I like that. You've narrowed my identity down to two ruling families, to say nothing of the dispossessed. As my father always said, there were other families who once ruled the counties, older families: some of them died off, some of them fell on hard times, others were dispossessed. As it stands, only two families have managed to hold their thrones for over two centuries: the Caros of Leyawiin and the Hassildors of Skingrad."

"But that only leaves...Bravil," Crixus replied. "I...sorry, the last time I was in Bravil was during the War. I can't remember the name of the current count of Bravil."

"Ciprius Cantilius," Aelina returned. "He's the Count of Bravil, and...my father. I'm the heir to the County of Bravil."

Crixus said nothing, but merely nodded his head. A moment of stunned silence followed as Aelina, clasped one hand to her mouth, praying that Crixus would not make a rash reaction.

"You left your home, why?" Crixus asked.

"You know why I left," Aelina stated. "That life, it wasn't for me. Governing a county, arranging a marriage, bearing children, being the public face of Bravil before all those petulant, scheming little sods, and then finally grow old and turn into a dotard like my father: it might as well be a lifetime in prison. I want to see the world before I get too old to enjoy it, enjoy it as anyone else and not just the daughter of a count."

"Then why do you hate Lucan?" Crixus asked.

"My sources lead me to believe," she returned. "That he was commissioned by my father to bring me back to Bravil. I don't want to go back, but this Pelagius is crafty. He has contacts within the Thieves Guild, who have always kept me on the run. He's relentless!"

Crixus nodded.

"Crixus," Aelina returned, her voice relaxing its usual cool, playful tone and becoming more earnest. "Please, promise me you won't tell anyone what I've told you here, especially him."

"What, no threats?" Crixus retorted.

"I'm serious," she replied. "I won't hesitate to do what I threatened to do, but..." She sighed, lowering her head again. "...I'd rather not."

"Why not?"

She lifted her head slowly, gazing Crixus' reaction. "It would be a lie to say that I haven't enjoyed spending time with you."

"I see," Crixus grinned in return. To his surprise, her grin turned to a look of seriousness.

"That's why I can't stay in the castle," she returned. "Gregor Fraseric has dined at my father's table; he knows who I am. I will do as I have done before, and that is to combat the Thieves Guild. If you ever need me, well, just look for me at the Grey Mare."

"And what about my offer?" Crixus asked. "To come to Bruma?"

"We'll see about that, won't we?" she returned, a sly grin on her face. She blew onto the candle and it went out, then she too vanished without a trace. Crixus sighed, then made his way back to his bed on his hands and knees, crawled into the covers, and, wearied at last, fell asleep.

* * *

**(AN: Ugh, this chapter started getting too damn long, so i cut it short [lol, 8000 words is short]. We still have our basics, but not the big stuff that will happen: not yet at least. Meanwhile, Chorrol...[any _Walking Dead_ fans on here? know about the Carl meme?]: had to make it a little bit more "interesting", as well as affirming what i had stated in the other stories, that sentiment in Cyrodiil towards Nords is highly negative. Tiraa's lair was intended to be like a puzzle trap level: the hardest one, since going back a step or giving up would result in a trap that would kill, even if your character [in this instance, Crixus] were at a high level.)**

**(I just hope that i can keep working on this. As of right now, writing on this story feels like _Shameless_ meets _American Horror Story_ [no pun intended, though i can't say why that's significant]: all of the characters are morally bankrupt or just all around dicks and are against everything i hold dear and sacred. Add that to the lack of reviews, and it's a wonder i haven't given up on this story as well. [as a side note, i saw one user on a gaming website blog page talk about how the NPCs in _Oblivion_ are so bland and repetitive that it's difficult to become emotionally attached to them: i might be falling into that same rut with my characters. Because let's face it, Cyrodiil is boring!])**


	35. The Tower

**(AN: In lieu of ripping on kirkbride [or my brother], i'm going to provide a little bit of background into one of the characters who is being presented in this story. Arcadia Valga is, indeed, a member of House Valga, that once ruled Chorrol. I gave a reason for why her paternal ancestor was "torn apart" by "wild Nord clansmen", because, as we saw in _Skyrim_, the clans of Skyrim are anything but wild [i can't see the Silver-Bloods, the Black-Briars or the Battle-Borns doing anything like that, and the other clans - Snow-Shods and Grey-Manes - only under provocation]. My reason is that her family, like everyone in Cyrodiil, are anti-Nords. And, like Crixus, they are vocal about their hatred, and have often antagonized the Nords of Bruma and Skyrim, resulting in said incidents falling to blows.)**

* * *

**The Tower  
**

Crixus found himself in a strange land covered with black, igneous rocks. In the distance behind he could see something of man-shape striding, each footstep echoing like the very bones of the earth moving and stomping. It was a massive thing, so huge that it could easily have held a dragon in one of its hands. But his mind was driven away from the massive shining figure and towards a huge black mountain, rising so high that its head would touch the clouds. Swiftly he seemed to fly up towards the top of the mountain. But no sooner had he approached it when the scene changed and he found himself in a dark, smoky cavern. He saw a tall man fighting three shining elves, then suddenly one vanished and appeared near something shining in the rock wall nearby. Another broke off from the fight and stabbed the man in the back, then there was a flash and everything vanished once again.

Now Crixus found himself atop a tall, white tower, overlooking a wide, green land. He had only just taken all of this in when suddenly a winged, black thing swooped by, holding in its hands the decapitated body of an Altmer. Then the scene changed again, and he found himself atop a high, snow-capped peak bare of trees. Everything beyond was clouded in smoke, but near at hand he could see massive winged shapes circling the peak, shouting in a language which he could not hear. Above he saw tiny specks of light, like stars, shining in the sky. They seemed to be making out a shape, the same one which he had seen four times now: the Tower.

Once again he saw himself, but now in his own room, with candlelight held aloft in one hand while the other poured endlessly over the book _Mysticism_ which he had stolen from the Synod office in Kvatch. The phrase 'the Tower' seared into his mind as though put there by dragon fire: yet nothing he saw in all of that book seemed to tell him what 'the Tower' could be. Angrily he tossed the book aside, then, to his surprise, ran to the window and opened it up. He saw that, beyond his control, he leaped out of the window.

"_Wuld...Nah Kest!_" a voice that was not his own shouted from his own lips. For a moment, Crixus felt as though he was flying through the open air as the Thu'um carried him through the sky. Then, to his surprise, and beyond his own knowledge, he saw a green flash and a tiny orb sail through the air and land on a roof. There was a bright green blast, then Crixus felt himself being crushed for a brief moment, then found himself on top of a roof. From the roof, he climbed down into the darkened streets, making his way towards the courtyard where the Nord had been lynched a day or two ago. He saw there, in the circle of what appeared to be some kind of dais, an old stump lying in the center thereof, and, beside it, a man in blue robes running his hands over it. In a flash, he had crossed the courtyard, leaped over the stump and pinned the man down to the ground. What he saw was an old Imperial with a short-cropped, gray beard, gagging through his hand and cowering beneath him.

"Who commands the school of Mysticism in the Synod offices in town?" the strange voice demanded.

"N-No one," coughed the old man. "That school was ended years ago. Please, let me go!"

"Gol...Hah Dov!" he shouted, flooding the man with golden light. "Now, tell me what you know."

"There..." sighed the old man, as his resolve faded and his voice became a dead drone. "There was one, an older man, one well learned in the esoteric complexities of the mystick, the shake-fast of the earth-lent, the wall-bounds of the thither-naught..."

"The name!" demanded the voice. "Give me a name!"

"Mercator," gasped the old man. "Mercator Signis."

"Where is he?"

"At the office building," the old man replied. "But you won't find him. The Synod have ways of finding..."

But without another word, Crixus' hand dragged the old man to the edge of the dais, placing his head upon the ledge of the stone, then stomping with all of his might upon the head until the face was bashed into the stone ledge. In that moment the bond between slave and master ended in Crixus' mind and he arose from the vision: his love of death had been denied him for too long, and the rush of having the power of someone's life in his hand and snuffing it out as easily as stomping a scrib was enough to momentarily pull him back into wakefulness.

His first thought was to run, and that he did, directly south as fast as he could. He was so focused on leaving as soon as he could that he did not notice the arrow that came whistling past him until it was too late, and his leg caught on the rope that had been tied to it. He tripped and collapsed onto the cobblestone road, breaking his nose. Heedless of the hot blood welling up in his face, Crixus began to push himself up when, as swiftly as in the ruins of Skingrad, the Grey Fox leaped over to and landed in front of him.

"Out for a walk in the moons' light, Your Highness?" the Grey Fox asked.

"Agh!" groaned Crixus. "Let me go!"

"No," the Grey Fox retorted. "You refused me that request, now I refuse you the same." With great effort, due to his size, the Grey Fox dragged Crixus into the alley, keeping a knife at his throat in case he tried to run away. Once they were both out of sight, the Grey Fox turned to Crixus, cowl to face, and whispered.

"What were you doing out in the streets in the dead of night?" she asked.

"I don't know," Crixus replied. "The last thing I remember was...going to sleep, in the castle." He did not add the secret rendezvous he had, for he could not remember it.

"Then how did you end up here, killing a Synod wizard?" asked the Grey Fox.

"I don't know!" repeated Crixus. "This-This has been happening for a while." He searched his brain, realizing that it had only begun after he left Skyrim. But there were side-effects as well, headaches and strange images, going as far back as the night after his assassination of the Emperor.

In the darkness, the Grey Fox removed the cowl, and Aelina spoke in a hushed voice: "You need help, such that I cannot provide."

"What do you want me to do?" Crixus asked. "Go to the priests and beg them to cure me? Ha! A lot of good that'd do."

"Then at least seek out the Synod or the College of Whispers," Aelina replied. "Maybe they could find a way to help you."

Crixus said nothing. This was not the first time he had awoken with blood on his hands or strange wounds on his body. Clearly there was something wrong with him, and ignoring the fact was not making it any better. Furthermore, he recalled a name that had been placed to what had been happening to him every night. A wicked, Nordic name, one which he hated even to have linger on his tongue from speaking it.

Miraak.

That evening, Aelina brought Crixus back to the keep, secreting him up to his room before donning the mask and vanishing into the night and from all of his memories. In the morning, Crixus was roused from his sleep and sent back to the throne room to wait upon Count Fraseric. All that day they were busy in the court, hearing petitions, and Crixus had no time to make his own. At last, around six o'clock in the evening, dinner was served and Crixus joined Count Fraseric and Arcadia Valga at the dinner table, where they ate. Arcadia kept the conversation going, with all of her talk being about either the savagery of the Nords or the latest fashion rules of the Imperial City, which she found to be perverse. At length, after she had talked so long about how she felt dresses were an eyesore and needed a drink to quench her thirst, Crixus leaned over to the Count and spoke his petition.

"My lord," Crixus spoke. "I would like permission to be excused from courtly duties tomorrow and be permitted to roam the city at will."

Count Fraseric slowly turned to Crixus. "Is there something wrong?" he asked. "Have I not given you good food and a place to stay? Why do you wish to leave?"

"I don't want to leave you just yet," replied Crixus. "I just wanted to speak to someone knowledgeable about...certain things."

Count Fraseric scoffed. "What can you possibly have to learn that Lady Vilenis cannot teach you?"

"Something," Crixus vaguely replied. "I...I don't know everything about it myself, but I do know that Lady Vilenis herself told me that she had no knowledge in this subject. I would seek out someone who has greater knowledge."

"Very well," Fraseric stated. "You have my permission to go as you will. I will have Arcadia Valga go with you. As my ward, she is trained in all of the martial arts. She will insure that no harm befalls you while you are away."

Crixus looked across the table and the thin, lanky, yellow Colovian woman. She hardly seemed the warrior's type, certainly not someone with whom he would willingly entrust the safekeeping of his life. Therefore he tried to have her dismissed.

"I'm flattered that you think so much of me," Crixus replied. "But, my lord knows, that I, being a soldier formerly under the Red Legions, am fully capable of defending myself."

"Nonsense!" grinned Count Fraseric. "There is no need to defend oneself in my city. The weapons ban prevents anyone from getting hold of weapons. Lady Valga's presence will insure the people that you are my guest and, therefore, should not be touched. No more, I will say no more: she will go with you and remind the people who is their lord."

The next day, being the nineteenth day of Frostfall, Crixus rose early, hoping to be rid of Arcadia Valga before he left the castle. Aside from seeking out this Mercator, he also had to find Aelina again and tell her about his plan to steal the first charter of the Mages Guild. After dressing himself and taking a brief moment to wash his face in the basin by his bed, he opened the door to find, to his surprise and annoyance, Lady Valga standing there, clad in a blue riding dress. It was called such because, unlike a normal dress, the skirt was cut along the thighs, allowing for greater movement, and she wore leather riding pants beneath it.

"Are you ready, sir?" Valga asked.

"Oh, right," Crixus groaned.

"Cheer up, now," Valga replied. "I'm here, and I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Really?" Crixus asked, making his way down the hall. "So tell me, what service have you seen?"

"Well, none," she returned. "The Legion frowns upon women joining, especially noblewomen."

"Noble?" Crixus asked. "You are a noble?"

"Of course I am!" she retorted. "Did you think I bear the name and crest of House Valga because I married into that family? I am the youngest of the last family of that house. We once ruled Chorrol as counts and countesses."

"Then what happened?" Crixus asked.

"Nords happened," Valga replied. "My family have only sought to educate the ignorant populace, to bring them culture and civilized thought: but they are obstinate in their barbaric ways. They tore my father and brothers to pieces, and I was not permitted to take the throne."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "As far as I've seen, the laws allow natural-born children of the counts to rule, whether they be male or female."

"I cannot say any further," grumbled Valga. "Count Fraseric is my lord and I am a guest in his court. I must respect him in all things."

"Indeed," Crixus replied. "And I respect you for what you did. Those Nords need to be taught a lesson."

"I know, right?" Valga returned. "And have you even been to Bruma? Might as well call it 'little Skyrim' for all the straw-headed barbarians rolling about in the filth over there!"

"Have you had the chance to speak to Marius Imbrex?"

"The chancellor of Bruma?" asked Valga. "Yes, many times. He has often been a guest at my lord's banquets. He has spoken of reducing the Nord population in Bruma to about...a tithe of what it currently is. I say that such measures are too soft."

"Too soft?" Crixus asked, turning around. Already he found her disdain for Nords to be intriguing. But what had she to offer that Marius Imbrex didn't have?

"It's not enough merely to kill the Nords," Valga stated. "They believe that dying gives them their heathen version of Aetherius, some riotous hall of brawling, drinking and sexual degradation called 'sovereign-guard.' Bah! That wouldn't be a rest for anyone, especially not for women! Therefore, we cannot merely kill them: they must be forced to submit. And even then, not all must die."

"Not all?" Crixus asked. From her language, she knew enough about Nords to punish them properly; why, then, was she suggesting that not all of them must die?

"Not all at once, mind you," she returned. "Men and children, of course, but the women must be spared for a time. I would see them all be coupled with the lowest of the low, the dregs of Tamrielic society: beast-folk, you understand. Orcs, cats and lizards. Their offspring will help to water down the Nordic blood."

"I see," Crixus mused, stroking his chin. "But I don't think all Nord women would accept being coupled with a Khajiit or an Argonian, or even an Orc."

"Then they should be made to couple," Valga retorted. She then sighed. "If only Elsweyr and Black Marsh had not left the Empire. Wherever can we find enough base creatures to breed the Nord race out of existence?"

Crixus then grinned. "I think I know where to find such...strong ones."

* * *

They left the castle and made their way to the Synod office in the northern half of the town, near the Tree Square. As they approached the stump, Valga halted and gazed sorrowfully at the stump.

"What's wrong?" asked Crixus.

"This was the Great Oak of Chorrol," Valga stated. "It's said that this was the only oak to grow this far into the Highlands. It has always been a sign of the hardiness of the people of Chorrol, that we could survive anything. But now..."

"What happened to it?" Crixus asked.

"The Great War," Valga returned. "My father had the tree cut down to provide wood for bows and timbers to defend the gate. The Dominion still broke through our defenses and took the city. It's ironic, that my father was willing to sacrifice anything just to hold a city that would fall in the end, even the spirit of our nation."

"Your father was count, so you say," Crixus stated. "He was a great man, by virtue of his station: a great man thrown into war. And great men are sometimes forced to make sacrifices...for the greater good."

"I wish that were so," Valga replied, then went on her way towards the Synod office. Crixus, meanwhile, lingered behind, gazing at the tree stump. Speaking those very same words, echoing what Titus had told him in his final hours, felt as though he had, at last, betrayed the memory of General Claxitus and the 9th Legion.

"Come on, then," Valga called back. "Weren't you the one who wanted to come here?"

Crixus nodded, then turned away from the stump, having at last forsaken the memory of those with whom he had fought and bled. He then followed Valga toward the office building. It was built like any other Colovian structure in Cyrodiil: gray-white stones upon the walls and tiles of similar color upon the floors, covered over with rich tapestries. In the foyer of the office was a blue and gold tapestry, with an eye woven thereon. This hung behind a desk, at which an Altmer in blue robes sat.

"Welcome to the Synod offices in County Chorrol," she greeted to the guests. "I am Eldarie, First Adjunct of this establishment. If you have something to report, I can have an Attendant here to fill out your report."

"I would like to see Mercator Signis," Crixus replied.

"Of course," Eldarie replied. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Well, no..."

"Very well, then," Eldarie curtly answered. "Since you are not a member of the Synod, this is not a priority meeting. Good day to you, sir."

"What, just like that?" Crixus asked. "You don't even know who I am!"

"You are not a member of the Synod," Eldarie replied. "Nor do you bear the amulet of the Elder Council, therefore any business you may have with us will have to go through the usual channels. This will require a waiting period of three days, an appointment made and then another four days to see if Mage-Scholar Signis is available."

"I don't have a week!" Crixus retorted.

"Then good day to you, sir," Eldarie grinned smugly, turning from Crixus and Valga to gaze upon the stack of reports at her desk.

"It's about the Tower!" Crixus blurted out.

At this, Eldarie paused and looked up at Crixus with wary eyes. Without another word, she gestured for Crixus to follow her as she opened a door near the Synod banner and began to walk slowly up a flight of stairs. Crixus and Valga ascended the stairs behind the elf, who led the way to a door at the far end of a shorter hallway at the top of the stairs. Here she turned around and shook her head.

"Your woman must remain behind," Eldarie returned.

"His woman?" Arcadia retorted angrily. "I'll have you know that I am no man's woman! Do you want me to..."

"It's alright," Crixus interjected. "I'll go in alone."

Arcadia took a step back as Eldarie opened the door and led Crixus inside. The room seemed to be a little libray, with every wall covered with book-shelves heavy with many books and scrolls of various size, shape, color and antiquity. At a table sat an old bald man in grey robes with a short, bushy beard, who seemed to be pouring over an old scroll.

"Who's there?" the old man sourly asked. "Eldarie, I told you I didn't want any visitors!"

"My apologies, good sire," Crixus greeted. "I am Servius Crixus, a veteran of the Imperial Legion."

"Oh, you didn't tell me the Legion was here to visit!" exclaimed the old man, his sour tone changing to one of warmth and amiability. "This is highly unexpected, but most welcome. Leave us, dear: I will talk with this man in private, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Eldarie nodded, closing the door behind them.

"Come come, noble sir," Mercator said to Crixus. "Have a seat. I don't have visitors very often, so it's always good to have someone want to visit. May I offer you a dumpling? I haven't the appetite for pastries these days, but they keep sending them to my room."

"No thank you," Crixus replied, taking a seat. "Though a glass of wine would be most appreciated."

"I find that wine, when drunk too early," Mercator mumbled. "Spoils the palette. Oh, but you are my guest, who am I to argue?" With this he flicked his wrist and a bottle of port came floating through the air from a chest in the corner of the room. This came to rest on the table before Crixus.

"Thank you, thank you very much," Crixus grinned. "I knew I was missing something, and now I see what it is."

"I hope you'll not be offended by my little display of magic," Mercator replied. "I am old and my joints are stiff: I don't do a lot of traveling, and the ban of levitation makes moving through other means...shall we say, difficult?"

"Not at all," Crixus returned. "I've known many good mages in my time."

"Oh?" Mercator asked. "This is good, very good. Keeping company with wizards can be profitable, especially for the soldiers of the Imperial Legion. Are the Battle-Mage divisions still active?"

"Yes, they are," Crixus replied.

"Good, good," nodded Mercator. "Now, then, if I may ask, what business do you seek from me?"

"I heard," Crixus began. "That you were an expert in the field of Mysticism. Though what I see here is a library. Perhaps I am mistaken?"

"No, no, you heard right," Mercator returned. "I am a master of the school of Mysticism, one of the last masters, that is. The Third Rumaran Council discontinued the practice of Mysticism, delegating the spells of its school to the other branches of magical learning. As such, the ancient spells, those which were discontinued, are almost forgotten. Since I am not teaching anyone anymore, I spend my time writing books on the subject, in hopes that that ancient knowledge not be forgotten."

"And what can you tell me about Mysticism?" asked Crixus.

"Anything you like," shrugged Mercator. "The school is, of course, difficult to understand and harder yet to explain to the novice: even in the days when it was recognized, few could understand it properly. As far as we know now, the school came to us from the place where everything else Imperial came: the elves. The Psijic Monks of the Isle of Artaeum were the ones who founded it, calling it 'the old way.' Though if that is in any way connected to their own religious practices remains to be seen. Due to its paradoxical nature, most Mystics who used the power of old were focused not on discovering its secrets and unraveling its existential semantics, but on learning the dependable paths and patterns of magicka in this school and focusing all their energies upon mastering what little they knew."

"I see," Crixus nodded.

"Why do you ask?" Mercator returned. "Do you wish to become a Mystic?"

"It is a noble goal, to be sure," Crixus stated. "But I have another reason to be here. For the past several nights, I have had...dreams. And in each dream, I saw a Tower."

At this, Mercator seemed to straighten up, and look upon Crixus with a gaze less relaxed but not less friendly. "Then I suggest you seek an astrologer, not a Mystic. The Tower is a birth-sign."

"Yes, I know," Crixus returned. "But then, earlier..." He hesitated. If he mentioned that he read the book _Mysticism_, perhaps Mercator's superiors would deduce that it had been him who stole the book from the Synod office in Kvatch. He corrected himself: "...a friend, one of the mages I spoke of before. He was reading in an old book about Mysticism, and the Tower was mentioned in it."

Mercator sighed, furrowed his brow and stroked his thick, bushy beard. "I see. Well, I'm afraid that your friend was mistaken. There is no connection between the birthsign of the Tower and the school of Mysticism. We peddle magicka, not money." Mercator turned his attention back to the scroll he had been reading.

"What about the Red Mountain?" Crixus asked.

At this, Mercator let the scroll fall down into his lap. "What?"

"The Red Mountain?" Crixus asked. "Anumidium. The-The Throat of the World, the highest mountain in the north. Are any of these of any significance in this matter?"

Mercator rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Crixus, I cannot help you. I am truly sorry: I wish that I could be of more use to you, but there is nothing that I can say. The Red Mountain is no business of mine, and the Walk-Brass have all been destroyed. I'm terribly sorry to waste your time for nothing..."

"Oh, my fault," Crixus, overwhelmed by Mercator's kindness and apologies, returned. "I-I didn't mean to bother you."

"The quest for knowledge is never bothersome, my dear Crixus," Mercator replied. "Farewell. I hope that you will, in time, find the answers you seek."

With this, Crixus walked over to the chest and removed a cup. From this he poured himself a sip of port and drank therefrom: he had been offered it and had accepted it. Only an uncouth and un-mannered Nord would, in his belief, refuse now. After drinking, he placed the cup and bottle on the chest, then inclined his head to Mercator. Then he walked back out and found Eldarie and Valga waiting for him.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Arcadia Valga asked.

"No," Crixus returned, without a single look at either Arcadia or Eldarie. "Let's go back to the castle."

Once again, Crixus found his head growing heavy. Only that tiny sip of port reminded him of just how long it had been since he drank something stronger than mere wine. He also realized that he hadn't slept with a woman in a much longer time. He was growing irritable and heady. Once they had left the Synod office, Crixus took one look back at Valga. While her bosom was certainly small enough for his preference, her wiry frame and angular face structure put him off to the idea. Besides, she seemed as though she was an all-around unpleasant woman to spend too much time with, notwithstanding her hatred for the Nords.

Suddenly, a familiar sound shook skies above. A great shadow passed overhead, stirring up the cold wind into a great, biting gale. Cries rose up from the streets of Chorrol: some in amazement, others in terror. Above in the morning sky, a tiny dot was circling in the air.

"What is that?" Arcadia asked.

"No," Crixus said. It was the only thing he could say. "Not again, not this time, not here."

The tiny dot slowly began to grow larger and larger, taking the shape of some great thing of bird-form, but much larger. There was a loud, earth-shattering roar and fire rained down from the sky, setting afire the buildings in the Great Oak Place.

"No!" Crixus shouted as the beast went sailing overheard.

Again the beast swooped down, a sea of crimson red, roaring with a loud Voice, and fire burst from its mouth. Another section of the city burst into flames. Now the voices were cries of panic, of fear and pandemonium. Crixus turned back, but saw that Arcadia was gone, a distant figure running as fast as her 'riding dress' could permit towards the castle. Someone struck him as he stood there and he saw many others running towards the keep, several city guards among them. Immediately he took one by the arm.

"You! Stop!" he said. "What are you doing? You must defend your city!"

"Against that thing?" the guard returned. "You must be out of your mind, citizen!"

"It's your duty!" Crixus retorted.

"Fuck that, I wanna live!" the guard shouted, struggling to free himself. "I'm not getting paid enough to die here, now let me go!" At last he gave a desperate struggle and went flying back, tripping on the cobblestones and falling down. In fear and trembling, he rose to his feet.

"You wanna face that thing?" he asked, gesturing up to the sky. "Go right ahead. I'll be sure to mourn you at your funeral, if there's any pieces left to bury!" He then turned and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouting: "Every man for himself! Run for your lives!"

Crixus stood as he saw repeated before his eyes the scenes at Nimalten. Chaos and pandemonium gripped the hearts of the people of Chorrol: many of whom knew nothing worse than the Dominion. Almost no one living could recall when the hordes of Oblivion came rushing through the gates whose blackened ruins dotted the landscape of Cyrodiil. Now they were faced with something of the same kind again, only this time, unlike the armies of the Dominion, swords and arrows were useless against it. People were thrown down, trampled to death, children pushed aside or left behind by fleeing parents. Some bold looters ran back to take what they could from the northern half of the Great Oak Place, now in flames. Then, to his horror, he saw the Fighters Guild hall.

The building was in flames, and from its smoking doorway came many fighters in leather armor with their weapons, many crowded around a bald, fat Dunmer in rich robes. Among them he saw his knights, Viator, Casmar, Boderic, Alcedonia and Quintus, gaze up in horror at the crimson monstrosity, then, like the others of the Fighters Guild, turn and flee.

"Stop!" Crixus shouted, coming to meet his knights.

"Back!" cried Viator.

"No!" Crixus shouted. "No, you must stand and fight! This is what you're supposed to do!"

"Fuck that," Viator stated. "There ain't no fucking sense in being burned alive fighting that thing!" Without another word, he and Casmar ran as fast as they could towards the keep.

"You are the Fighters Guild!" Crixus shouted to the others. "This is your task, to defend the Empire from beasts! Surely you won't let one weak little wyrm send you running away!"

"Don't let it get me!" the Dunmer wailed to his followers, who gathered about him, shields raised and bows aimed upward, but no arrow or sword challenging the beast.

"But it's just a big lizard!" Crixus returned. "I've swatted dozens of them back in Skyrim! There's nothing to fear from it!"

"Are you insane?" Alcedonia panted, out of breath at Crixus' side. "No weapon can kill it! There's nothing we can do!" The roar was heard again, and the dragon passed overhead, setting fire to dozens of other buildings. Then, to Crixus' alarm, he saw it fly towards the castle and, with its scaly back, ram into a tower, smashing it and sending it crumbling down onto the wall below.

"I should never have left home!" Alcedonia bemoaned, upon seeing the tall, strong northwest tower of Castle Chorrol shattered like sand. With that, she and Quintus ran with the others.

Crixus now stood alone in the Great Oak Place, flames on all sides and a fury within him as hot as any fire.

"Is there no one left to defend Chorrol?" he roared angrily. "No one with the balls to fuck this b*tch in its scaly arse?"

"I would have thought you ran with the others," Boderic stated.

"You!" Crixus retorted, turning about. Boderic was there, his armor covered in soot as he tried to save those who had fallen in the attempt to flee. "I thought you'd be in the Chapel of Stendarr, on your knees, as usual, praying."

"There is a time for prayers, my friend, yes," Boderic replied. "Then there is a time to step forward in faith and act upon those prayers. That time is now!"

"Good," Crixus retorted. "Are you going to come with me and kill this big b*tch or are you too busy praying?"

"I must save the people," Boderic retorted. "Too many have been left behind! They will all burn if I don't save them!" He then ran off into the Synod office, which was already ablaze.

"Coward!" Crixus shouted without a hint of irony, as he turned and joined the others running towards the keep. The rage in his heart burned furiously: these were Imperials, the master race. More loyal than Redguards, more civilized than Nords and of greater lineage than Bretons. Yet here they were, running and cowering in fear from something he esteemed to be less than the fabled cliff racers of Morrowind. How the Nords, even the weakest among them, had charged against dragons in his time, from Nimalten to Riften and beyond, put his beloved people to shame. And it angered him.

But he wasn't running from the fight, he told himself. He was going to the one place he knew he could find someone loyal. Someone who had been with him in Skyrim and wouldn't be perturbed by this monster. True he had never faced one down before, but if he had the balls to stand before the Dragonborn in single combat, then surely he could face one of these, couldn't he?"

Up to the keep he ran, and saw that the doors thither were blocked by a great press of people trying eagerly to enter the keep. The guards at the gate had their swords and their pikes drawn to keep the people back while those behind them lowered the portcullis to keep the people out. Furiously, Crixus circled around to the northern side of the castle, hoping to climb in the same way Aelina had helped him re-enter the previous knight. Coming around, he saw the northwestern tower: one whole side had been torn off by the dragon's scales. Ripped open were each level inside the tower, including, to his horror, the room that belonged to Petruvius and Lethia. He could not see his squire, but he did see a white-clad figure dangling from the broken ledge of what had once been the floor of their room.

The sound of boards breaking suddenly alerted him to the fact that the boards to which the white-clad figure was clinging were starting to snap. Quickly Crixus looked left and right, but, to his dismay, the stairs leading up to the next level were broken and the broken walls provided no place to climb up thither. He stepped forward and looked directly up to judge the distance between them: at least another level lay between Crixus and the figure in white, but he could see nothing else.

"Hey!" he shouted up. "I'm right below you. Jump down and I'll catch you."

What he heard next chilled him to the bone. The words were those of Lethia, but they were not such words that came out of her mouth with which he was familiar. Often she spoke in a haughty, authoritative voice, as a queen among slaves. Now she spoke as one on the edge between life and death. Even more poignant was the fact that she had not heard the voice of the Divines in a long time, and so her predicament at that point was no different than his which he felt on a daily basis: of one lost man often-times a step away from the dark, endless abyss of death.

"I can't!" bemoaned Lethia. "It's too far!"

"Look, I'm right down here, I'll catch you," Crixus replied. In that moment, her rescue became the most important thing to him. All other thoughts vanished save for one: Lethia must not be allowed to die. "Just trust me."

"I...I'm slipping!" she cried, sweat forming around her fingers, clenched tightly onto the wooden floor-boards.

"You have to trust me!" Crixus replied. "I'm your only hope! Come on, now, jump!"

There was a loud crack, then in the distance another roar from the beast. Suddenly the Snow Elf let go and came falling down into Crixus' arms. At the very last minute he caught her, but the weight brought him down onto his back. Panic and the fear that she hadn't been caught caused Lethia to faint the moment Crixus collapsed beneath her. Crixus was bruised, but said nothing as he crawled out from under her and did his best to hide her face and pale-blue skin. They would have to return to the castle, and there was only one way therein: the one surrounded with people.

* * *

Through the crowds Crixus pushed, carrying Lethia in his arms. Behind Chorrol burned in the fury of the dragon's fire. The closer he came to the keep, the thicker the crowds grew, until he was shoving them aside one by one just to move even a single step forward. As he went, he saw Arcadia Valga pushing her way through the crowds, who, despite the much-touted rank of which Count Fraseric spoke, did not part before her. With a final push, he made his way to the guards who rose to block his path.

"No one gets in without the Count's permission!" one guard shouted.

"I am the guest of the Count!" Crixus replied. "Let me pass!"

"Not one step, scum!" threatened another guard. "Or we'll be forced to run you through."

"Scum?" Crixus retorted. "You can't talk that way to me! I'm a soldier of the Red Legions."

"I don't care if you're a member of the Elder Council," taunted the guard. "No one gets in, and that's that...unless you'd like to test your luck against the Chorrol city guard?"

"Let me...pass!" came a shout from below. Turning around, Crixus saw Arcadia Valga finally break free from the crowds, then turn to the guards. "Guards, the Count demands my presence at once. Let me pass!"

"Madame Valga!" the guards saluted. "Of course."

"Crixus, come," Valga said, gesturing to Crixus to follow her toward the portcullis. Inside the little gatehouse, she took Crixus aside into a room that was guarded by the city guards. Inside there was a trap-door upon the ceiling; the guards outside gave the order and the trap-door was opened and a ladder was extended. Up the ladder Valga climbed, then, moments later, sent ropes down from the guards at the next story, with which they lifted Lethia up. Afterwards Crixus climbed up and the ladder was removed.

"I need to speak with the Count at once," Crixus spoke. He then picked up Lethia and carried her across the courtyard and to the entrance to the main hall. To his surprise, he found that the doors to the main hall were not guarded and not locked. He was able to push the wooden doors open with his shoulder and walk into the hall without any accosting him. Moments later, there came the sound of feet running hurriedly down the stairs above the throne. Looking thither, he saw Petruvius racing down the stairs.

"There you are!" he cried out. "I feared you had been slain."

"Ah, Petruvius," Crixus shook his head. "It would take more than a b*tch lizard to take me down! Where is the Count?"

"I don't know," Petruvius replied, now half-way across the hall. He came to a halt before Crixus, panting. "I was...on the upper levels. Trying to save..." He noticed the white-clad figure lying in Crixus' arms. "By the Eight! Say not that..."

"She's alive," Crixus returned. "She fainted after I caught her, but she is alive. Here, take her. I need to speak to the Count."

"What for?"

"To get our weapons back," Crixus replied. "I refuse to let sacred Cyrodiil be overrun by Skyrim's problem!"

Just then the doors opened again and Valga came running into the throne room. Crixus, guessing that she, having lived here a long time, would know about where the Count may have gone, turned about and called out to her: "Where is the Count?"

"The East Tower," she replied. "Come, I'll show you the way."

Crixus gave Lethia into Petruvius' arms, then followed Valga as she jogged up the stairs, turned left, then passed through a small, unadorned wooden door and came onto the wall around the castle. Hot on her trail, Crixus followed her along the outer wall of the castle, which doubled as the eastern wall of the city: for in Cyrodiil, all the cities were surrounded with high walls, built during the Reman Dynasty after the Akaviri raped and rampaged their way through Tamriel, and rebuilt after wars with Mehrunes Dagon and the Dominion.

After a healthy jog, Crixus and Valga arrived at the eastern tower of Castle Chorrol. Down a stair that wound about the inner wall of the tower they went, coming down to the bottom floor that was built upon the bones of the highland hills. Valga removed a key from around her neck and placed it into the lock of a trap-door, then opened it and went down the stairs. Crixus followed her, coming to a dimly-lit room built recently at the bottom of the tower. Inside were several city guards with torches in their hand and, in the midst of them, huddled together in his fine clothes, was Count Fraseric.

"My lord," Valga stated. "There has been an attack. Some kind of monster..."

"A dragon," Crixus returned.

"That was a dragon?" Valga asked, turning to Crixus. "I thought they were just another baseless rumor from the ignorant north-lands: you know, like ice-tribes, Falmer or that one particularly treasonous one about a warrior with a dragon's soul or something?"

"The legend of the Dragonborn?" Crixus asked.

"Treasonous!" Valga retorted. "To think that an Emperor would come from Skyrim, of all places! Even Tiber Septim was from High Rock."

"Is it gone?" the Count interjected. "Please tell me this dragon's gone."

"I'm not sure, my lord," Valga retorted. "The last I saw, it was flying northwest, towards Cloud Top."

"My lord," Crixus said, turning to the Count. "Let me and my squire have our weapons back, so that we may go and hunt down this dragon and avenge ourselves upon it for the sake of the city."

"Are you mad?" Valga asked. "I was there in the thick of the attack. Our arrows bounced off it, the spells of the Synod mages could do nothing. How are we supposed to fight it?"

"Just walk up to it and kill it?" Crixus asked. "It's not as hard as it looks."

"Do you presume to know more than the city guard?" Valga asked. "Or more than the Synod mages?"

"I know that I've slain dragons before, in the north," Crixus replied. "There's nothing to it. Just let me and my squire hunt this dragon down and I'll return with its head as proof."

"Alright, alright!" stammered Count Fraseric. "Anything! A-Anything, just so long as you save my city!"

Crixus nodded, then made his way back to the trap-door stairway. He had to go find Petruvius and then repair to the Fountain Gate. Other goals and purposes had to wait, for now there were dragons coming to Cyrodiil and he would not let that happen.

* * *

**(AN: Yes, i did just bring dragons back. I had planned this since _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, as far as Du'ulnahvith, but there is a greater story going on here, one that is older even than _Morrowind_ [a hint for what you may see].)**

**(After reading some of the reviews i've had thus far, i realized that i've come from hammering into my readers heads that "Nords aren't racist" to hammering into my readers heads that "I don't share Crixus' opinions".)  
**


	36. Introductions

**(AN: I know a lot of you want to see Crixus have a big character development and become "the good guy". I only have one question in that regard: why? Is it because, since he is the bad guy, you want there to be hope that the bad guy can be redeemed, no matter how far they fall for cathartic purposes [ie., if even he can be redeemed, then i can be too]? Well, surprisingly enough, my brother hates the idea of redemption [he couldn't get over how Goethe's Faust could be saved, no matter how far he had fallen, but then again, he feels for the slave-masters over their slaves - perhaps a reason why he sees nothing wrong with the Dunmer - so i don't know]. I personally do believe in redemption, but i won't go any farther on the subject for fear of giving anything significant away.)**

**(The _Battle for Middle Earth 2_ Edain mod will be the greatest non-work or school thing that takes me away from this story! It's so good, even in beta form!)**

* * *

**Introductions**

Immediately Crixus left the East Tower and went in search of Petruvius. Since their room had been destroyed, he found them, as he had left them, in the main hall. There he told his squire of what he intended to do.

"My lord," Petruvius replied. "You know that I am your servant, and that, at any moment, I am willing to go with you into the jaws of death. But not today, I'm afraid, sir. I must stay with Lethia until she recovers."

"Then bring her with us!" Crixus retorted. "We'll leave these whining fuckers behind and go out, just the three of us. It'll be just like the way we started out."

"I'm not sure about this," Petruvius hesitated.

"Look, I don't have time for your doubts!" Crixus snapped. "We need to go now, before the dragon gets away and we lose it. Are you with me or no...you know what? Fuck that, you're with me. Come, now!"

Petruvius sighed, lowering his head, as Crixus took off. He had no choice but to follow him, it seemed. Across the castle courtyard they went, coming to the gatehouse, where Crixus helped Petruvius bring Lethia back down through the trap-door. From there, they pushed their way through the throngs gathered about the castle gate, then made their way swiftly to the Fountain Gate, where they had left their gear: their tents had been packed up and taken in with them once they were invited to stay at Castle Chorrol. At the gate, they found that the few guards who remained had no qualms with letting them take their weapons once they were on their way. Therefore, with staff, swords, shield, knives, bow and quiver of arrows, they left Chorrol. Petruvius took up his horse from the North Country stables, while Crixus summoned Shadowmere and they took off westward around the edge of the castle.

Once they reached the end of the southern wall, they turned northward. Here they passed by the main bulk of the city that had been burned with dragon's fire. The houses were still smoking, unattended by the guards of Chorrol, and the flames still raging. So intense was the heat that Crixus and Petruvius could feel it even from the other side of the wall. Even the Chapel of Stendarr had caught fire in the blaze. Upon seeing its tall spire, which had stood for centuries, wreathed and blackened in fire, Crixus laughed.

"If the Eight are so powerful," he mocked. "Why can they not save their own temples and chapels from destruction?"

Petruvius said nothing, for in his heart he was hurt at his lord's callousness. He had hoped that Crixus would have spared Lethia for her state, and him for his affection toward her. After all, they were not officially enlisted with the Legion and not acting under orders: surely he would have let him have this much.

They traveled all that day, going around the city of Chorrol and riding as fast as they could until the land began to slope upward. Here they had come upon the Colovian Highlands, which rose up towards the Jerall Mountains in heights much loftier than Falkreath, making the northernmost edges of Cyrodiil colder and higher than the southernmost hold of Skyrim. Here the air was thinner and the autumn chill was thick and biting, and even Shadowmere's swift pace was slackened by the ruggedness of that land. Before them the heights of the county of Bruma and the Jerall Mountains rose like a great white wall.

As the sun was beginning to climb down into the west, Crixus came to a halt.

"Can you see it, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "And if it flies over those mountains and returns to Skyrim, we'll have come all this way for nothing. I'm not pursuing that b*tch back into the north."

"Sir, if I may ask..."

"No, you may not," Crixus snapped.

"But, sir, after the Siege of Solitude," Petruvius continued regardless. "You seemed much more amiable towards Eirik and his Sons of Skyrim. But now that you're back in Cyrodiil, you've become even more antagonistic towards Nords. Why is that?"

"I've spent time with people of noble birth and bearing," Crixus replied. "I have seen what they had to sacrifice in order to secure peace with the Dominion. I've realized just what great men have to do: and it makes me realize how ignorant and wicked the Nords are. They spit on noble Colovian sacrifice by b*tching and demanding self-governing and the worship of their false god Talos. It makes my blood boil just to think about it."

"Then think not about them, sir," Petruvius stated. "If you would be ruled by me..."

"I will not," Crixus returned. "And these white mountains make it impossible to think of nothing else but the gods-forsaken land of Skyrim."

"Can we at least camp for the night?" asked Petruvius. "I wasn't able to bring a tent, but we have our cloaks, and that should be enough. I wager we won't be able to reach this Cloud Top before the day ends, and we will need light if we wish to fight this dragon."

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "We will need light."

* * *

They came to a small plateau in the side of the rocky hills, where there appeared to be a hole in the side of the hill: a cave, or so it had once been. Here there were rocks large enough to hide them from almost every eye, from the bottom of the hill to the heights around the southern ranges of Bruma. Even an eagle perched atop a high peak on the Jeralls could not have spotted them in their little place. In this little defile they relaxed and secured their horses as best they could: Shadowmere Crixus let run upon the heights. As the night grew, the weather became cold and they wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Petruvius did not wear his own cloak, but wrapped Lethia in it. She had not yet awoken, but was clearly alive. Having laid her down, Petruvius examined her. Apart from several bruises that were now healing, she had no other wounds and her chest fell with quiet breath.

They had no food to eat, and so Crixus kept watch on the surrounding area while Petruvius kept watch over Lethia. After a while, Crixus paused and sat down next to Petruvius.

"You seem to care a great deal for her, despite her treatment of us," Crixus stated.

"She needs a friend," Petruvius replied. "I've seen the way the others look at her, even your friend...the Colovian woman with dark hair. I forget her name. It's not so much that they fear her because she's an elf, but that she's, well, an oddity to them. No one has seen an Ayleid in Cyrodiil since the Third Era and most believe the Falmer of Skyrim to be fables. She does not like to be gazed upon like some museum piece, especially now that..."

"What?"

"She feels the gods have abandoned her," Crixus stated. "I remember her visions, the ones she used to have. Scared the shite out of me sometimes, sir, if I may be so bold to say so. She never remembered them after she spoke them, but she confided in me, while we were imprisoned by the Synod in Kvatch, that she always felt the presence of the Divines. To lose that, I can't imagine what she's going through."

"Well, the sooner she realizes the truth, the better," Crixus stubbornly replied.

In that place, there was little to listen to. The wind occasionally howled through some crevice of the rocks, Petruvius' horse snorted quietly, and an owl hooted in the distance. So it was that, with such noises faint and distant, the two of them heard immediately the soft moan that escaped Lethia's lips as she stirred from her sleep.

"She's awake!" Petruvius softly exclaimed, a smile on his face. "My lady, are you well?"

"Wh-Where is he?" she murmured. "Where is my rescuer?"

"Here, Lethia," Crixus spoke. Her blue eyes looked upon Crixus, then she seemed to freeze in wonder at this revelation.

"You?" she asked in disbelief. "You saved me?"

"Yes, I did," Crixus replied. Inside he longed to say something in retort to how she had behaved throughout their journey: something to the effect of 'I will be expecting a reward' or 'You're in my debt now.' But he held his peace, choosing instead to merely keep silent until spoken to: but the word given to him struck him harder than a hundred words of gratitude or thanklessness.

"Why?"

Crixus sighed. He had not an answer ready for her, and he did not like appearing ignorant or in any way lacking before someone who had such high standards, especially around humans whom she considered beneath her. Yet there he stood, for at least ten seconds, a blank expression on his face as he raked his brains over and over, trying to find some answer which they would both find satisfactory.

"People have a tendency to die around me quite a bit," Crixus replied. "I saved you from death when we first met, and I did not wish to see another person die under my watch. So I saved you."

"I would not have done the same for you," Lethia stated.

"I know," Crixus added. "Now get some rest. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, if we wish to reach the summit of this Cloud Top hill."

Crixus returned to his watch, saying nothing more to either of his companions. The night passed slowly for him, and there were no dreams or visions to disturb him. However, the emptiness of the hill-side made him feel worse than being enclosed by a phalanx of trees. At any moment, he imagined, something might leap out of the darkness and attack them. These fears, however, were groundless: night passed without a single monster or beast attacking them.

When the morning came, they mounted up and pressed on ahead, going north and west as best as the path through the defiles and slopes of the hill could lead them. Behind and below them the Colovian Highlands fell away into waves of green, red and gold. The land had the appearance of the Rift in Skyrim: and, like Skyrim, those leaves would soon fall in winter. Far below them, in the distance, a line of black smoke indicated the still-burning fires of Chorrol. To the north and east, Sancre Tor rose up in all of its stony splendor. From there, the travelers could see the spires of a temple built upon the ruins that once inhabited that hill.

"Petruvius," Crixus called back. "I've never been this way before, not even during my time in the Legion. What is that building I see upon the Golden Hill?" He pointed towards Sancre Tor.

"That is the Primature of the Eight Divines," Petruvius replied. "It was built there during the Stormcrown Interregnum over a hundred years ago. The Ecumenical Primates of the Eight Divines dwell there in seclusion, welcoming visitors in peace and friendship."

"Religious ascetics," sneered Crixus. "Just like the Greybeards of Skyrim. Shut themselves up from the world so as to not be bothered by its 'petty' problems."

Behind Petruvius, Lethia lifted up her head towards the hill and, for the first time in a long while, smiled.

"The gods are coming," she stated. "I hear their voices once again. They will speak to me soon."

"If you plan on becoming compromised," Crixus stated. "Then you two can wait here while I ascend the summit by myself. Shouldn't be more than a ten minute climb from here."

"But what if there's a dragon up there, sir?" asked Petruvius.

"Relax," Crixus returned. "I've killed dragons all on my own before. Nothing I can't handle."

Atop Shadowmere, Crixus went alone the rest of the way up the hill. The winds blew harder up here than down in the valleys, assuaged by the trees. Looking around, he saw no sign of a dragon or any wild thing. For a moment, he feared that he the dragon had flown away and this trip was now in vain. With a groaning sigh, Crixus decided that he would at least climb to the top of the hill and look about: perhaps there he could find some idea as to where this dragon went.

Ten minutes passed and Crixus at last gained the summit. At the top, there remained the ruins of some ancient structure, with pale-gray lichen growing upon the stones. Above was a great crown of stone that rose above the ruins. There was, for the moment, no sign of any dragon about. Crixus looked to the sky, seeing only a cloud-covered sky and no dragons on the wing. To the north, the tall heighths of the Jerall Mountains rose up like great white spires crowned with mists. But even as Crixus looked about, his head grew light and he began to hear whispers of words carried on the wind.

"_And when the world shall listen...Nedic Dragonborn, the gods must have a sense of humor...and when the world shall see...I am your only hope to survive...and when the world remembers...I have the power to save you, listen...that world will..._"

Suddenly the words vanished as a great thumping sound was heard. Crixus turned about, clutching tightly to the reins as Shadowmere brayed fearfully, pawing at the ground. From behind the large boulder at the top of the hill there appeared a great red dragon, walking on the ground, usings its wings as fore-limbs and its legs to walk. Shadowmere immediately gave a roar in challenge, then began to buck and bray and rear up on its hind legs.

"_You know the words that will save you,_" the voice spoke again in Crixus' mind. "_Speak! This one is weak, and will bend easily. Speak the words or it will kill you!_"

The dragon roared "_Yol...Toor Shul!_" and Crixus hesitated: Shadowmere did not. The dark horse reared up on its hind legs, throwing Crixus off its back and down the sloping hill towards one of the broken arches of the ruins. A stream of fire burst from the dragon's mouth, completely engulfing Shadowmere. There was not even a roar of agony, only the rush of flame. When it finally died and Crixus rose from where he fell, there was nothing left of Shadowmere: not even a charred skeleton. The dragon, meanwhile, was stalking towards him.

"Speak now!" the voice demanded. "It is your only hope!"

"Fine!" Crixus groaned, pushing himself up to his feet. As if in answer to his final resignation, into his mind came again the words which he had Shouted before, when he needed to coerce people to give him what he wanted.

"_Gol...Hah Dov!_" Crixus shouted. There was a burst of golden light, then, suddenly, the beast came to a halt.

"Mmm, _Drem Yol Lok, Lokolterein thu'uri_," quoth the dragon. "It has been some time since a _joor_ gained mastery over a _dovah. Zu'ul_ Nahfahlaar. I submit to your _thu'um._"

"Wait," Crixus spoke up. "That name, I...I remember it." His mind went back to his time in the 9th Legion, during their years in Hammerfell. Many times they encountered wandering bands of nomads, who were neither independent like the Crowns and the Forebears or allied with the Dominion like the Alik'r. Among them was told a story of a hero of the Redguard people, a High Yokudan, who once slew a dragon on the isle of Stros M'Kai.

"You're Nafaalilargus!" Crixus spoke.

"_Niid, thu'uri,_" the dragon spoke. "That name was given by the _joore: fin Sahqomun ahrk Lokolterein_. Those that you would call Redguards and Imperials. They gave me that name. Hmm, a poor imitation by those who cannot comprehend the _Dovahzul_."

"No, you can't be," Crixus replied, ignoring the dragon's words. "You can't be Nafaalilargus. He was killed by Cyrus the Redguard, over two hundred years ago."

"_Krosis, thu'uri_," said the dragon. "The _Sahqomun_ known as Cyrus could never truly kill a _dovah_. Only those with the _dovahsil_, the soul of a _dovah_, could properly kill a _dov_. Even the _bruniikke_, what your people call Akaviri, could not kill us."

"All the stories said you were dead," Crixus stated.

"_Paaz_," quoth Nahfahlaar. "_Qothgro ni dinok_. Bound, not dead. Only a powerful _dov_ could awaken another, bound in such death-like sleep. It would be beyond you, _thu'uri_."

"I'm the Dragonborn," Crixus replied. "What you would call..."

"Dovahkiin?" asked Nahfahlaar. "_Unslaad krosis_. I did not recognize you. Hmm, but this cannot be, even for one such as you."

"Why not?"

"_Joore ni mindoraan_," said Nahfahlaar. "You cannot begin to understand immortality the way a _dovah_ can. The knowledge of this _thu'um_ is...beyond you."

"So why are you here, then?" Crixus asked. "Did someone...bring you back after Cyrus killed you?"

"Hmm, well discerned," said Nahfahlaar. "_Lot onikaan._ There is one of the _dovah_, so it was said in ancient times. One whose fury was great, who yearned for the lordship that belonged to the firstborn of Akatosh. Hmm, Du'ulnahvith was his name. The _bruniikke_ never found him, the_ joore_ could not master him. He found my resting place on Stros M'Kai. He bound life into my old bones once again. He tasked me to bring _Sarodaal_ under the rule of his _thu'um_. Hmm, but you, _Dovahkiin_, you have proved the mightier."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked, his confidence building. He had come here, expecting to find some fire-breathing monstrosity: at least the one responsible for destroying half of Chorrol. What he found instead was everything he hated about Skyrim and the Greybeards.

"According to the stories," Crixus began. "Tiber Septim conquered you and used you to bring the Crowns and Forebears under his tyranny. And I have seen others control other dragons with only their voices. You're a sham! Weak, impotent! This other dragon you mentioned, this...Du'ulnahvith, he probably gave you a quick shouting, then brought you under his power. Now I speak only three words and you're at my command as well. You are weak!"

The dragon strode forward, growling in a low, menacing voice.

"_Werid, Dovahkiin_," said Nahfahlaar. "You are very brave to taunt a _dovah_. Brave or foolish."

"Brave?" Crixus retorted. "Ha! It doesn't take a whole lot of bravery to stand up to you b*tches."

"_Meyus joor,_" quoth Nahfahlaar. "There is much you could learn from me."

"From you?" Crixus retorted. "You make me laugh! The Akaviri chased you out of their land: fuck, the fucking Nords defeated your kind! You have no power here, you're nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! You're just a parasite, a pest, an infestation like the fabled cliff racers." Crixus reached to his sheath and drew out his Nightingale Blade.

"And it's time your kind were removed just the same," Crixus challenged.

He strode forward, sword in hand, and to his surprise, Nahfahlaar strode back. As he walked forward, again the voice spoke to him.

"_You do not seek mastery over the dragons?_" asked the voice. "_You believe your own power is sufficient? Perhaps I underestimated you, Dragonborn. Your tenacity is to be commended. Very well, then. Take this gift from me, and show this dragon what true power is._"

"_Zu'ul_ Nahfahlaar!" the dragon spoke, taking another fearful step back. "There is still great knowledge, such that I have gained over the many _bok_. Power, such power: with it, you might sit on the Ruby Throne as well, just as Tiber Septim did in his time."

"I am nothing like him!" Crixus defiantly shouted. "I'll take the throne without dragons, without Anumidium, without the Voice! It will be my victory, my reward, mine! All mine!"

"_Zu'u bolog hi_, _Dovahkiin!_" quoth the dragon. "_Lost hi aaz!_"

"Look at yourself!" Crixus shouted. "Cowering from a human, begging for your life! Just like the old stories. You're so fucking pathetic, you don't even deserve to be killed." At this, Crixus sheathed his sword again and then turned his eyes to the dragon.

"I command you!" two voices shouted as one. "At a single word, I can end your existence forever! No eternal dragon shouts will bring you back! Beg, you cowardly b*tch: beg!"

"_Aaz! Lost hi aaz, Dovahkiin!_" Nahfahlaar quivered. "_Zu'u bolog hi!_"

"_Unslaad...Faaz Aus!_" Crixus shouted. The words were strange to Crixus, for he had never heard anyone else speak them before: not the Greybeards, not Eirik and certainly not any dragons he had encountered.

The effect was instant. The massive crimson dragon began to writhe in agony, its wings collapsing, its long tail convulsing, the massive reptilian body falling on its belly.

"Yes, writhe like a worm," Crixus sneered, now coming up to gaze into the dragon's yellow eyes. "You're still under my power, aren't you?" The dragon groaned in pain. "Answer me!"

"_Geh, thu'uri,_" replied Nahfahlaar.

"And everything I say you must do, is that not correct?" Crixus replied.

"_Geh_."

"Even if I were to command you to rip out your heart with your own jaws?" Crixus retorted.

"Du'ulnahvith_ fen kos dinok, vokul Lokolterein,_" muttered the dragon in protest._  
_

"Answer me, you b*tch!"

"_Geh, vozin bruniik,_" quoth Nahfahlaar.

He then gazed at the dragon and, the voice whispering the words over and over in his mind, he spoke them: "Nahfahlaar, _hil du sil!_"

The beast lifted up its head, giving out one last defiant roar, then tore its mouth into the base of its own neck, and ripped out a black, bloody mess. Nahfahlaar's body collapsed, and the head released its bloody cargo onto the ground. With its last breath, the dragon whispered to Crixus.

"Du'ulnahvith _fen kos dinok..._"

There was a sudden burst of flame that engulfed Crixus, but all he felt was a cool breeze rushing through him, filling him with new strength all the way down to his bones. All that remained of the dragon were its bones. With a grin Crixus looked upon them, then kicked the dragon's skull. Now thus pleased with himself, he seized his amulet and called Shadowmere to him. To his amazement, the black horse appeared there on the side of the hill, without a single scratch on it.

"There you are, my good friend," he said. "Go back down the hill and bring the others up." He then looked down at the skull. "This is going to be fucking heavy, I'll wager."

When Petruvius and Lethia arrived at the summit, they were surprised to see Crixus there, standing unscathed before the bones of a dragon. He did not share with them all that had transpired on the mountain, certainly nothing concerning the voices he was hearing, but instead asked them for help in carrying the head. Since they had no rope, Crixus removed his bandolier and secured it across the horns of each saddle, hanging the dragon's skull between them.

* * *

The journey back would have been slower if they were going uphill with the dragon's skull. As it was, their greatest concern was to keep the horses from falling: while Shadowmere might certainly survive, Petruvius' horse surely wouldn't. Nevertheless, they made good time and were down the hill by the time the sun went down. They made their camp in a small wooded meadow, with Crixus keeping watch on the camp and their prize. The night was 'busier' than it had been before: the grass chirped with crickets, the trees hooted with owls and beyond the howling of timber wolves could be heard. Smaller than the wolves of Skyrim and less menacing, but a threat to the horses if they got close enough.

When the morning came, they all awoke and continued on their way back to Chorrol. They arrived around midday, riding up to the city gates. These were unmanned, and there were not even such guards as to order them to surrender their weapons. Looking around, they saw that the city was still in ashes and had yet to recover fully from what had happened with the dragon. There were still quite a few people in the streets, milling about somberly with eyes cast upward in fear ever and anon. Those who happened to turn their eyes towards those on the horse, looked again, wondering if the massive skull they were seeing was a fantasy of their eyes. At last, Crixus and his party arrived at the gates of Castle Chorrol. Great multitudes still throned about the gates, eager to speak to the Count, fearful if their city was safe and if their houses would be restored. Those who parted from around the two horsemen gaped in wonder at the dragon's skull, others clapped their hands and a scattered few cheered. When they came up near with the gates, the guards opened the portcullis to them and allowed them entry into the courtyard.

From the courtyard, Crixus dismounted and let Shadowmere run free, as he and Petruvius lifted up the heavy dragon skull and carried it up to the entrance to the keep. When the guards there saw the skull of the dragon, they hurriedly opened the gates and sent one to call their lord up from the secret chamber in the eastern side of the castle. While they were there in the main hall, Arcadia entered the hall. She was clad still in her blue dress, which did nothing to offset the yellowness of her skin, but she wore a leather belt, upon which sat the scabbard of a sword.

"Has the count relinquished the ban on weapons?" Crixus asked.

"I should be asking you that same question, sir," she returned. "You come bearing arms."

"No one stopped me yet," Crixus replied. "Perhaps it's because of this." He gestured to the skull he and Petruvius were carrying.

"Divines be praised!" she exclaimed. "You slew the dragon!"

"Indeed," Crixus replied.

"But...but how?" she asked. "None of our arrows or spells did anything to it?"

"Aha," Crixus knowingly and smugly returned. "But you didn't have me with you. That scaly b*tch never stood a chance."

"But how?" she repeated. "The only ones who successfully slew dragons were the Akaviri, and they haven't been seen in Tamriel since the Second Era."

"I'm not Akaviri, unfortunately," Crixus replied. "From what I've heard of them, they were superior to everyone in Tamriel in every way, save for the Dwemer and the Dunmer."

"That they are," Arcadia stated. "High society, those of noble bearing and the families of the old wealth respect the inate superiority of the Akaviri and collect the relics they left behind as signs of status and importance."

"I regret that I haven't begun my collection," Crixus stated. "All I have is this dragon's skull. But, perhaps, seeing as how you come from a family that were once counts, I might have the privilege of seeing your collection?"

Arcadia's eyes shifted warily from one side of her face to the other, her head tilted slightly from side to side. "Most Akaviri artifacts have long since been stored in the Imperial Library or the Arcane University, care of the College of Whispers. Finding one has become even rarer than it was two centuries ago."

"Surely such an old family as your own," Crixus stated. "Would have had at least one..."

"Uh, where is the count?" Petruvius, who had not been with Crixus when he went into the lower room at the base of the eastern tower, asked. "Should he not be here in his throne room?"

"He has taken his leave and won't return until convenient," Arcadia stated. "Although..." Her eyes turned toward the dragon's skull. "...the news of this victory will certainly rouse him. He will be most pleased to hear of this." She then called for a servant named Cimber, who brought with him a leather bag. This he gave to Arcadia, who then turned to the servant and ordered him to open it. This he did and produced a bundle of letters, which he presented to Crixus.

"What are these?" Crixus asked.

"While you were gone," Arcadia stated. "Raven messengers arrived at the castle aviaries, many of them with messages addressed to you. Several were sent to the Hero's Welcome in Kvatch: I assume they never reached you?"

"Let me see these," Crixus muttered, taking the letters from the servant with one hand. At that point, the soldiers brought Count Fraseric up into the great hall. As soon as he saw the dragon's skull, he clapped his hands.

"Oh, Divines be praised, Crixus!" he exclaimed. "I knew there was something worthy in you when I brought you into my court, and I see that my trust has been proven right! A dragon hunter! Oh, this will be the talk of all of Cyrodiil within the week! The Hero of Chorrol! I will have a great feast prepared for you and your companions this very evening."

"I would rather not," Crixus stated.

"Nonsense!" Count Gregor Fraseric dismissed. "You have done this city, its people and me a great service: I consider myself a good man, and would be amiss if I did not give due praise to this good deed. One good deed deserves another."

Crixus tried to persuade the Count not to publish his name, but it was already too late. The gates were opened and the Count permitted all those who wished to petition him to come into his hall and see the man who had saved Chorrol from the dragon. Standing at the Count's side as the doors were opened and the throngs entered the hall, Crixus quickly realized that he would not have a moment to read any of the letters he had been given, and so gave them to Petruvius, whispering in his ear:

"Take these and go with Lethia to my chambers," he said. "Stay there until I summon you."

"Yes, sir," Petruvius nodded, then took the Snow Elf and departed.

True to Crixus' assumption, he had no time to read any letters for the rest of that day. Crowds flocked to beg the Count's decision on what he would do for their town in the wake of the dragon attack. Many were in tears over the loss of the Chapel of Stendarr, an ancient house of worship that had stood since the time of the Septims. When at last the Count proclaimed that the dragon was dead, he presented its skull as proof, held aloft for all to see by a group of the city guards. He then produced Crixus and introduced him, by his right name, to everyone as the Hero of Chorrol, the slayer of the dragon.

The rest of that day was spent at the Count's side, with the people flocking to Crixus and thanking him for saving their city. As each person came and went, Crixus found himself feeling very pleased with himself. He had never received due honor which he felt he deserved, not only as a soldier of the Imperial Legion, but as a defender of the Empire. Now he was receiving the adulation and applause of the crowds, much to his delight and satisfaction. For being so often among people he deemed beneath him and full of nothing but disdain for his way of thinking and his leadership - which, bred from his time in the Legion, he deemed incomparable - suddenly struck with so much love and gratitude was almost too much for him: a wide grin split his face.

That evening, Crixus was brought to the feast in the dining hall. Here he sat at the place of honor, with Arcadia and the Count. The food was prepared with all sorts of dainties and delicacies which he had eaten at the table of the Surilie Brothers in Skingrad, as well as heartier "mountain" food: roasted goat, pheasant, conies and warm stews to keep away the oncoming chill of mid-autumn. Crixus ate such a feast as he had never eaten before, feeling sated and full afterwards as he lumbered on back to his room. He knocked thereon and Petruvius opened the door.

"You never summoned me, sir," Petruvius stated.

"Yes, yes, I know," said Crixus. "I was busy with everything going on in the great hall. But..." He sighed, not from frustration but weariness. "...here I am. Now, let's have the letters."

"Of course, sir," Petruvius returned. "I've taken the liberty of addressing them based on the seals and the importance thereof. I do remember what our objective is, sir, concerning the reforming of the Mages Guild."

"Hmm?" asked Crixus as he took a seat at the little desk in his room. "Oh, yes, yes, I haven't forgotten either. I need to speak to Aelina soon. Get her to reconcile with the Thieves Guild. Hmm, maybe Brynjolf might be able to help in this matter. The last I heard he was in Cheydinhal with the Black-Briars. Very well, let's see what we have, then." The first letter on the top was sealed with the five-pointed star with the eye in the center: the sigil of the College of Winterhold. The letter read thus:

_To Servius Crixus,_

_Greetings and salutations. It has been a long time since we strode through the cold, harsh snowy-deserts of Winterhold together, chasing down ancient secrets and rogue mages. Things certainly have changed in that time, as you have no doubt heard._

_When news reached Winterhold that the Dunmer of Windhelm took the city and killed Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl Korir fled Winterhold. Kraldar has become Jarl, and has begun his plans to rebuild the city and Dunmer not from House Telvanni is looked upon by my family with mistrust and enmity: the Jarl's steward is such, as are those who have taken Windhelm (filthy retainers of House Sadras!). I fear they may threaten Winterhold's existence for their own good ere long._

_You may perhaps wonder why I am writing to you, since I have rarely done so before. The Arch-Mage approached me three weeks ago with your letter concerning the restoration of the Mages Guild. She stated that, as a friend and companion of yours, my words might be useful in persuading you to help the College of Winterhold in a certain endeavor which would secure their assistance with you in this matter._

_I'm sure you remember our little expedition into Saarthal. With the reorganization of New Gnisis, the Arch-Mage, Master Tolfdir and others in the College fear what tampering with that place may bring, especially now that there is a "problematic incident" which could fuel further anti-mer hatred, especially with the unveiling of Saarthal and its secrets. Jarl Kraldar and the Arch-Mage have therefore agreed to bury Saarthal and all of its secrets, for the greater good of mutual cooperation and understanding between elves and men. The Arch-Mage has requested that I implore you to send aid in this great undertaking, that she may show your dedication to the common good and, therefore, give what aid may be available in restoring the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil._

_Azura guide you,_

_Brelyna Maryon, co. College of Winterhold, Winterhold, Skyrim_

Crixus folded the letter back up and placed it on the desk. He certainly saw the wisdom in what Arch-Mage Mirabelle Ervine was suggesting, but he had no mages, or even soldiers, with which to send to Saarthal. He told Petruvius to carry it with him until such time as he saw fit to answer it. The next letter he picked up was from Gorak gro-Shagk, his Orc friend from the 9th Legion. He told him of what was going on in Skyrim as well, the Haafingar Imperial garrison having mostly disbanded and he remaining on leave by Governor Rikke's command. Many refugees were coming to Solitude from the Reach, claiming that the Forsworn, who now owned the Reach, were terrorizing the local populace: burning houses, killing and raping in the light of day as well as the dead of the night, and hanging the bodies of women and children from the walls of Markarth.

"Gorak says," Crixus stated. "_'The people have come to Jarl Elisif, who will be High Queen once the moot convenes on a certain day in Morning Star of next year, begging her to heed the cries of the people of the Reach and end their suffering. Governor Rikke has reminded the Jarl that Skyrim is not prepared to fight another war and so has dissuaded her from taking undue action.'_" He grinned.

"This is good," he told Petruvius. "The Reachmen are taking back what belongs to them from the filthy Nords. It it as it should be. Now, I need you to get me ink and parchment: I'm going to write a letter to Gorak, commending the governor for her progress...and requesting a legion of Orsimer to come with me to Bruma."

"As you wish, sir," Petruvius nodded, then produced the ink and parchment. Crixus wrote a note to his friend, requesting aid and thanking him for the report on the progress made in the west. Once this was done, he gave the letter to Petruvius to have delivered, then turned his attention to the longest letter yet.

This letter was written by Elisif. He read it quietly to himself, over and over, and repeated the words to no one. She lamented his absence, claiming that all of her attempts to rule or do right by her people were being suppressed by Governor Rikke and her steward Falk Fire-beard. She remembered fondly their time together, and how he gave her the strength to stand up for herself as Jarl. She longed for that time to return and, in very flattering words, implored Crixus to come and visit her. He was enthralled by the eloquence of the words and read them over and over again: though Elisif was a Nord, Crixus found himself unable to tear his eyes away from what she had written.

Eventually Petruvius returned and with a clearing of the throat, he brought Crixus back to himself. There was a letter from D, with no other name or return address inscribed upon it, which said this:

_I have witnessed your reluctance to carry out your mission. I ask that you come to Cloud Ruler Temple so that we may talk privately. Long live the Empire. D._

Crixus sighed, then stowed the letter in his pocket. He had never been to Cloud Ruler Temple: the only time he heard of it was in old stories about the Hero of Kvatch and when Esbern mentioned it at Sky Haven Temple. He would have to look into where it was before going in search of it. From here he plucked forth another letter, sealed with the emblem of a hawk-like creature.

_Greetings and salutations,_

_I, Edvald Olo, First of My Name, by the Wisdom of the Eight, Count of Bruma, have heard tell from the mouth of my chancellor, Marius Imbrex, of your many great deeds, and how you are disposed towards the plight of the Cyro-Nibenese against the vile barbarians of the North. It is therefore with great welcome and friendship that I welcome you to my court in the County of Bruma. I hope that you come swiftly, that we may share in your wisdom and plan together how to rid Cyrodiil of the savages that have brought contempt upon our good name._

_With great welcome and friendship,_

_Edvald Olo, First of his Name, by the Wisdom of the Eight, Count of Bruma._

"At last!" Crixus exclaimed. "I'm rising up in the world! This is the third time I've been invited to stay at the court of a count! Surely we're making powerful connections: soon we may yet have enough to influence the Elder Council."

"As you wish, sir," Petruvius replied.

Crixus reached for another letter, only to find that his eyes were growing heavy. He rubbed the sleep out of them and stifled a yawn: "What is the time?"

"Late, sir," Petruvius answered. "No clue, though. The bell was broken down by the dragon."

Crixus sighed. "Very well. One more letter before bed." He found the next letter was dotted with many small indentations, but bore no other great symbol. As he recalled, this referred to the silver diamonds from the seal of the city of Anvil. He opened the letter and read therefrom.

_My dear nephew,_

_I write to you with the saddest news that pen could put to paper to send to family. Our beloved niece, Selvia Maro, Countess of Anvil, has been cruelly murdered. She was poisoned with a concoction of deadly nightshade during a dinner feast with visiting delegates. The family have been put in prison on charge of a conspiracy, and Cassius Urtius had been made count of Anvil._

_I cannot tell you where I am or how I managed to escape, for I fear that all of Anvil is now being watched. The city gates have been closed and a manhunt has begun for you, my dear nephew. Urtius claims that you are responsible for the death of Selvia, citing a long-standing betrayal of yours against the Maro family, starting with the death of Gaius. I know that you will come to Anvil, to stop the spreading of these malicious lies and save your family, but I implore you to remain where you are. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to rescue us. The days of House Maro might be numbered._

_Keep my son and daughter alive. Tell them that their father loves them._

_Love, Uncle Surius_

Here Crixus paused, struck with disbelief. Fond childhood memories of playing in the streets, on the coast, or in the woods of Anvil with Severus, Venerius and even little Selvia, came back into his mind. The little girl with the bouncing brown hair had turned into a noblewoman, kind and just, one who honored family. Now she was dead. More so than his distant childhood memories, Crixus remembered her as one of the first people he had met upon his return to Cyrodiil: he had marked how warm and welcoming she had been to him after a year of exile in Skyrim.

Again he looked at the letter, hoping against hope that a second glance would reveal that he had misread some line, misunderstood something, made some kind of mistake: anything to hope that Selvia wasn't dead. But the words were still there. He read it again and again, and a fifth time as well, but the words never changed.

"Sir?" Petruvius asked.

Crixus crumpled the letter in his fist, but made no answer. He wondered if he should tell Alcedonia and Quintus that their aunt was dead. Leaving the letters to be picked up and secured by Petruvius, Crixus made his way over to his bed and collapsed therein, gazing up at the canopied poster roof. Many people had died in his life, many people who were close to him as well. Yet even the deaths of the Dark Brotherhood meant nothing to him with someone close to him removed. He felt as though a hole had been opened in his stomach and he was left there, lying, with this gaping hole in him that could not be filled. He wished that he had been there, that he hadn't taken up this foolish quest to take the Ruby Throne, and instead had been there: perhaps he might have saved his aunt from death.

"This is all your fault," Crixus muttered to the Divines. "All of it. You made me what I am, and now, because of you, I've lost someone close. Is that the way it is with you, huh? You'll just take and take and take until there's nothing more left of me? Fuck you. Fuck you all!"

The last words came out like a hoarse whisper, as sleep began to overwhelm Crixus' eyes.

He saw himself standing on a windswept hill, overlooking the Gold Coast and the city of Bruma. As he stood there, he noticed that a man was standing there with him, a golden chalice in his hand. As Crixus looked upon the man, who sipped from the chalice ever and anon, he realized that the man was very familiar. The tall physique, broad shoulders and blue eyes were unmistakable. Immediately, Crixus quivered when his mind made the realization.

"What is this?" he asked himself. "Do you seek to mock me with this vision?"

"Who are you talking to, son?" the man spoke. Even his voice was the same as Crixus remembered it: hearing him speak filled Crixus with joy. But that joy turned to bitterness as he reminded himself that this was not what his eyes and ears told him it was.

"Don't call me son, shade!" Crixus retorted. "I am not your son!"

"All men, mer and beast-folk are children of the Divines, by one way or another," the man stated.

"Yet they give no care to their welfare," Crixus retorted. "Leaving them to kill and die, suffer all manner of hardships: and what do the Divines do about it? Fuck all, that's what!"

"The Divines have given you ample proof of their love and devotion to mortals," the man replied, turning to Crixus. "To you. They cured you of vampirism when you asked for it, even though you did not hear them and proceeded to desecrate their Temple in Skyrim. They brought about your meeting with the Dunmer battle-mage and reunited you with your friends, even though you burned down the Chapel in Skingrad. They even brought before you one who discerned the true nature of the Divines, not as the jaded mer-children would tell you, but the truth. Are these proofs not enough?"

"What if I don't want the Divines to love me and be devoted to me?" Crixus retorted. "What if I just want the Divines to leave me the fuck alone? We'd all be better off if you didn't exist, with all of your laws and regulations."

"There are those who take justice too far," the man said. "The Vigilants have been allowed to suffer for their lack of mercy."

"Don't you fucking dare!" Crixus retorted. "They're actually doing something good, something the Divines can't be bothered to do: actually fucking save people from daedra and abominations!"

"You have been showed the greatest mercy of all, my son!" the man retorted. "Your stepmother could have killed you at any moment, were it not for the Divines. Many times throughout the Great War, you came within a step from death and would have perished were it not for the great love and purpose for which the Divines have prepared for you. It was not mere chance that brought the Blades to Riften to save you from the fury of the Dragonborn: you have a higher purpose, one which you have been spared from death to fulfill for the good of everyone, elf, man and beast-folk alike!"

"Fuck my higher purpose!" Crixus snapped. "I don't need the mercy of the Divines, or their help. All that I have done was done by my hand: _**me!**_ Nobody else, understand? Nobody! My hand has saved me, not yours! So you can fuck off to Oblivion!" He was panting and heaving in anger, but the man who bore the face of Valerius Crixus did not return Crixus' anger in kind. His calm, collected demeanor made Crixus even angrier, and he spat in his face and turned about.

"Who fucking needs you anyway?"

"My son," said the man. "We have never given up on you, and we never will. Until your dying breath, we will endeavor to bring you back to the light. Therefore..." He took a sip from his chalice, then took a step closer: Crixus tried to take a step back, but found that he could not move backwards.

"Arise," the man whispered. "Wake up! Your life is in danger!"

The image faded and Crixus found himself in darkness. A warm, filthy hand was pressed tightly against his mouth and the light of the moons glinted off something above him. Instinct struck him and he raised his hands, just in time to keep the sharp, glimmering knife from diving into his chest. Someone was inside his room with him, a knife in their hand, attempting to kill him.

* * *

**(AN: Yet another long chapter, but at least we get a decent bit of intrigue. Who sent the assassin? Why?)**

**(Bringing Nahfahlaar back was difficult, because i had to come up with a bunch of new words in the Dragon language, some of which are not in the game's dialogue [gotten from a fan-made translation site called _Thuum_]. I have kept most of the words from the game still there, though. There is an extensive catalog on the Dragon language available for those who wish to know the words on either the _Elder Scrolls_ wiki or the _Unofficial Elder Scrolls_ page. I have intentionally peppered dialogue with dragons with the Dragon language to give their words a sense of antiquity, the same way Tolkien had Treebeard use Entish phrases and words in his LENGTHY dialogue with the hobbits.)**

**(One reason i shy away from magic is because of the need to make rules for magic. In the lore, literally anything can be done, which makes the concept of a conflict kind of moot and pointless. And this became even more difficult when i created the "Heal" thu'um in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_. So i finally explained in brief why it can't bring people back from the dead, as well as why anyone, including the Dragonborn, cannot learn Alduin's resurrect dragon shout: for the same reason a dragon cannot learn the "Dragonrend" shout. Just as how, in _Skyrim_, Paarthurnax states that dragons cannot comprehend mortality and hatred for dragons the way humans can, a human cannot comprehend true changelessness and immortality the way a dragon can. Therefore they cannot learn the "Resurrect" shout which Alduin uses to bring dragons back [and which Du'ulnahvith used to resurrect Nahfahlaar, because, after all, Cyrus was no Dragonborn and could not have permanently killed Nahfahlaar.])**


	37. The New Mages Guild

**(AN: All these things happening, characters being introduced, story plots moving forward, and all you care about is the Benirus/Maro manor. WHY?! There's nothing there! It's not interesting or even pertinent to the plot: the only reason i wrote that in was to show Selvia Maro's kindness and charity in opening her family house to orphans. Of all the things happening in this story, how come THAT is the most interesting, huh? Why? _WHY IS THAT, SIR OR MADAM?_)**

**(My brother really hates _Skyrim_ dragons, thinking that they're all weak and cowardly like how he believes Paarthurnax to be [he suggested killing off Nahfahlaar right off, without using him]. But, of course, the cliff-racers are a worthy menace! Just like with the comments on the Akaviri in the last chapter: everyone thinks that anything that comes from Japan is superior to everything that comes from Western civilization, hence the Akaviri can eat dragons and drive away what the "ignorant", "barbaric" white man fears as the end of the world! [also, no, i looked it up: "n'wah" means 'outlander or slave', ergo 'the lowest of the low.' AND Nerevarine didn't end slavery: he went on a fruitless journey to Akavir -cough- Japan -cough- and was eaten by the Tsaesci.])**

* * *

**The New Mages Guild**

To Crixus' benefit, and his fortune, his opponent was banking entirely on the element of surprise, hoping to kill him in his sleep without ever having to worry about facing him when he was awake. But Crixus' own body was still young and strong, made powerful with his time in the Legion. He forced the dagger out of the assassin's hand and punched him in the face. But his foe was no simple pickpocket, unskilled and unprepared for a blow from a man stronger than him. The assailant had something on his face which broke Crixus' punch. The hand on his mouth kept a tight grip on him, eager to keep the assault a secret even to the last. But that one move had purchased Crixus enough time to kick his attacker off of him, freeing himself and his mouth. Pulling himself out of bed, he leaped onto his attacker, pinning him to the floor. With one hand he seized the hand that held the knife, and with the other he seized the throat of his attacker.

"Who sent you?" he shouted. "Speak, dammit!"

His attacker gagged as if he was choking, and Crixus relaxed his grip on his throat. He didn't think he was squeezing very tightly.

"Tell me who sent you!" Crixus demanded yet again.

But the gagging sounds did not cease, and the left hand, which held the knife, was starting to shiver and shake. Crixus quickly realized that his foe was choking. Immediately he thought of poison and, keeping his hand on the knife, he reached up and touched a mask with goggles: Dunmer head-gear worn by the Morag Tong, Morrowind's personal assassin guild. With his left hand free, Crixus summoned a ball of candlelight to view his opponent. The light shone upon a dead Dunmer, whose red eyes were glazed over, permanently open in death.

Behind he heard Petruvius lighting a candle and bringing it hither, exclaiming upon seeing the body in leather and chitin armor. Crixus was now holding the assassin's mouth open, examining something that was still wedged between his teeth. Crixus lifted it up to his nose and sniffed it, then turned away in disgust.

"What is it, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"An assassin," Crixus mused. "He got past your watch, sir. That deserves a stern and fitting reprimand, and, unlike that fool Eirik, I will not forget your punishment over a pittance of good deeds."

"Sir..." Petruvius began to protest.

"This assassin was this close to killing me, Petruvius!" Crixus retorted, holding up two fingers a hairs width apart. "You failed as my squire and bodyguard, therefore you must be punished."

Petruvius sighed. "What manner of punitive measures do you have in mind?"

"I don't know yet," Crixus replied. "I will have to think on this. For now, remain here. I must see to this." He walked over to the helmet he had removed: an odd-shaped thing with a wide, flat dome and goggles made of netch leather and glass filaments for lenses. At the bottom of the helmet, just before the scarf covered the mouth, a small sprig of wick-wheat was attached to the inside of the helmet: it had been torn off.

"Curious," Crixus mused, removing the sprig. "Wick-wheat isn't poisonous. Yet..." He turned back to the body, holding the candlelight aloft. "...yes, here it is. Bits of wick-wheat in the assassin's mouth. It must have been poisoned: I can smell something foul on the sprig. But..." He trailed off, having no idea exactly what was put into his assassin's mouth. While he was certainly relieved to be alive, the adrenaline rush of being awoken in the dead of the night by an assassin coupled with the fear of being targeted by someone who cared for secrecy more than the lives of his or her agents kept Crixus up in a cold sweat for the rest of that night.

* * *

In the morning, Crixus told Count Fraseric about the assassination attempt on his life. The Count seemed very disturbed by the fact and ordered that more soldiers be sent to guard the premises of the castle and that stricter enforcements of the weapon bans be inacted. Crixus asked him if he could speak to Tiraa Vilenis, to which he consented. After going through the dungeon and down the stairs, Crixus picked his way through the maze of traps and entered her office again.

"What are you doing here?" Tiraa asked. "I'm not accepting visitors today."

"There was an assassination attempt," Crixus stated.

"Yes, I know," Tiraa replied. "And I assume you've come to me with information about this, hmm? Seeing as how the assassin was a Morag Tong?"

"Ho-How did you know?" asked Crixus.

"I know many things," Tiraa returned. "About my people, about what goes on in the Imperial City, about the Wanderer, about the Shield of Hlaalu and the other Great Houses of Morrowind. Now, then, what was it you wanted to show me?" Crixus produced the poisoned wick-wheat, which Tiraa took and sniffed.

"Mmm, it's wick-wheat gum," she stated. "Used as a trail-nibble among those who went into the Ashlands. But this has been poisoned: possibly a last resort by your assassin to keep from giving away information. It's common among the Morag Tong to kill themselves if they fail their mission."

"Indeed," Crixus replied. "I've faced them before in Mournhold during my time as prefect."

"I would assume so," Tiraa stated. "Redoran, Telvanni and Sadras have tried for years to remove the last Imperial bastion in Morrowind. Dres would have done the same, but their power is...much diminished with the fall of the slave-city of Tear to the Argonian invaders. Filthy lizard _n'wahs_!" She trailed off into curses in Dunmeri, spattered with daedric words that were in fact in the Dunmeri language, only spoken backwards.

"Uh," Crixus stammered. "C-Can you tell me what kind of poison is on the wick-wheat gum?"

"No," Tiraa shook her head.

"No?" Crixus asked. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know everything," she retorted. "After all, if I knew everything, I wouldn't need you bloody _n'wahs_ around, would I?"

"I thought you said you wouldn't call my people that again," Crixus retorted.

"Why should I walk on kwama egg-shells around you, hmm?" Tiraa retorted. "I should be who I am, without consideration for your little feelings! Especially when you come to me with such a demand!"

"It's not a demand, a request!" Crixus retorted. "A-a humble request, master!"

"Don't posture before me," Tiraa sneered. "I'm not some arrogant Telvanni rapist like Neloth, who demands that _n'wahs_ call him 'master'." She held up the poisoned wick-wheat to her eyes.

"Can you tell me anything about this?" Crixus asked. "I mean, why would the Morag Tong be after me? I thought I left them behind in Mournhold."

"Well, they've moved into Cyrodiil recently," Tiraa began. "The last ten years or so, you understand, and only in Cheydinhal or the Shield Quarter in the Imperial City. After all, the Dark Brotherhood, which already many believe to be legend, have all but disappeared. The void of an assassin's guild needed to be filled, and the Morag Tong were more than willing to oblige." She gazed at him with a knowing glare in her red eyes: a glare that made Crixus shiver. Just how much about his private life _did_ she know?

"But I thought that the Empire wouldn't approve of their ilk," Crixus said. "I don't believe the House of Nobles or the Elder Council would agree to recognize their writs of execution."

"The Elder Council have the Dunmer close at heart," Tiraa stated. "Despite being estranged, they want to see Morrowind brought back into the Empire. As such, they are partial to Dunmer politics and allow them great freedom in Cheydinhal; that is why the riots have been allowed to continue. None of you Colovian _n'wahs_ want to offend Dunmer sensibilities."

"Still," Crixus continued. "What can you tell me about this...poisoned wick-wheat?"

"Well, the Tong certainly didn't acquire it themselves," Tiraa replied. "This would have come from the Shield of Hlaalu. They do have an interest in restoring the flora and fauna of Vvardenfell. A great expedition has been planned to bring mer back to Vvardenfell: we hope to rebuild Morrowind after all this time."

"A noble and worthy goal," Crixus commented.

"But this poison eludes me," Tiraa, ignoring Crixus' comment, continued. "As I am a Mystic and not an Alchemist, I cannot say. However, I do have a friend, an acquaintance, in Cheydinhal who might be able to identify this poison. I can have it sent over, if you wish."

"Do it, please," Crixus replied. "I will pay you anything you ask!"

"I'm already waiting on receiving payment for the first thing I asked!" Tiraa retorted. "Where is my guild charter?"

"I've been a little busy lately," Crixus replied, forcing himself to grin and bury the frustration that was hiding in his voice. "I'll see to getting it to you at once."

"See that you do," Tiraa stated firmly. "Otherwise, you'll have no Mages Guild and no power to back your claim."

At this Crixus halted. "My...claim?"

"Why, yes," Tiraa replied, her eyebrows raising in a quizzical expression. It was as if she was saying: 'You thought I didn't know?'

"I don't know what you're..."

"Don't treat me like a fool, Crixus," Tiraa stated. "You want the Ruby Throne. Once you have it, you can legitimize our little endeavor here. And you certainly do show respect for the Dunmer. What's there not to like?"

"Right," Crixus evasively responded.

"Oh, don't worry," Tiraa dismissed. "I won't tell anyone. Lexerus Buteo, the Chancellor of the Elder Council, is not a man to be crossed. He's as wary and devious as any Dunmer. You would certainly need someone like me on your side if you would have a chance of escaping his notice."

"I'll keep that in mind," Crixus replied as he turned to leave.

* * *

Lexerus Buteo was a very busy man. Being the Chancellor of the Elder Council was very difficult, as he had no doubt come to learn. But he relished the challenge, one fitting for a man such as him, a self-made man who had built himself up from nothing. Therefore he took to his job with fervor belying his old age. There he sat at his seat in the Council Chamber, where the thirty seats of the Elder Council stood. In the days of the Septims, three seats were reserved for the delegates from each of the Empire's nine provinces: Cyrodiil, High Rock, Hammerfell, Morrowind, Skyrim, Valenwood, Elsweyr, Black Marsh and the Summerset Isles. Now only eleven seats were still filled: Hammerfell, Morrowind, Valenwood, Elsweyr, Black Marsh and Alinor had long since left and one member of the High Rock delegation had gone missing in Skyrim last year.

_How far we have fallen,_ Buteo bemused. _And oh, how much work I have yet to do!_

He scowled as he saw on the table before him yet another petition from General Flavius Tullius. He was really starting to get under his skin, General Tullius was. Ever since the Civil War broke out, he had been nothing but demanding: more troops, more supplies, more ships, more support from the Elder Council, more this and more that! Long had he and the other Council members opposed sending more troops to Skyrim. After all, the Empire couldn't afford to be seen as "weak" and "fragmented" before the Dominion, Argonia, the Great Houses of Morrowind and Hammerfell. Ignoring the problem and pretending that it would go away without any notice from the powers that be was, in Buteo's mind, the much more sensible option. It was, after all, Skyrim's problem: let the ignorant Nords fight amongst themselves. The world would be much better off without them. Eventually General Tullius managed to convince him and the other Council members that committing troops would, in fact, be an ample display of the Empire's strength, since he deemed there would only be one last battle to fight before the war came to a conclusion. At last they relented and, within three weeks, news came of the fall of Windhelm and the end of the Stormcloak rebellion in Skyrim.

Now General Tullius was demanding even _more_ troops! He had come back to Cyrodiil by way of the Pale Pass, which had opened up in the past few months, and was camped in County Bruma. The petition read that there was need to keep the peace along the Bruma-Cheydinhal border and that his troops, consisting of the Legionnaires he had received from the Elder Council as well as those he had conscripted from the North, needed to be refreshed.

"Busy night?" asked a familiar voice.

He looked up from the letters and petitions and saw Lady Arannelya standing there, like a golden hawk wreathed in shadows, a condescending gleam in her eyes.

"You could have announced yourself," Lexerus Buteo retorted, forgetting his manners for a moment. Seated in the room of the eleven most powerful men in Tamriel made him forget to whom he was talking.

"There was an old proverb in the Third Era," Lady Arannelya stated. "'When in Cyrodiil, do as the Cyrodiils do.' Undoubtedly about conformity and assimilation into the great melting pot of Colovian society. Altmer do not believe in this. As such, I will not adopt your customs and practices while I am here in this gods-forsaken country. Is that clear?"

"As you wish," Buteo sighed.

"Now, then, let us talk," Arannelya suggested.

"Must we?" he asked.

"Oh, we must," she returned, leisurely walking from her end of the Council Chamber to where the Chancellor sat. "How long ago was it when you sent the Penitus Oculatus to Skingrad? Do tell me, if your small human mind can recall it."

"The first of this month," he replied through clenched teeth.

"Twenty-three days ago!" she exclaimed, frustration and annoyance in her voice. "And in the space of over three weeks, what have you done about our little threat? Nothing!"

"Not true!" interjected Buteo with a single finger raised. "I have..."

"What _have_ you done?!" shouted Lady Arannelya, placing herself within an inch from Buteo's face. For one moment, her calm reserve faded and she was once again the commander of the Dominion forces, instilling fear into the hearts of her own people who gave their lives for their great cause.

"I...uh-uh, um, I have..." he stammered.

"Just as I thought," Lady Arannelya sneered, then turned to leave. "Perhaps the seat of High Chancellery has become too much for you?"

"No, wait!" Buteo begged, fearing for his position. "I have done something!"

"What?" she asked, without turning or even stopping.

"I've sent the Penitus Oculatus out to find him!" Buteo stated. "I sent them out a week ago. They should be on all the roads leading out of the Highlands: the Orange, the Black, the Red Ring. Within four days time, he will be here in the Imperial City."

At this, Lady Arannelya halted. She did not turn around, for she was still unnerved at losing her composure just now. Far be it from her to let this little human see her affected by good news: it was a rule among the Thalmor that they never show their true face before the Imperials with whom they were forced to work.

"You can guarantee this?" she asked.

"I give you my sworn word, as High Chancellor of the Elder Council," Buteo stated firmly.

Lady Arannelya scoffed outwardly, but behind her back, she was grinning. Every move she had made in secret up until this point were now about to be played openly, and she was to reap exactly what she had prepared.

* * *

The twenty-fourth of Frostfall was cold and chilly in Chorrol, this far into the Colovian Highlands. Yet for Servius Crixus, who had been up since midnight, there was no rest for him. Even though Count Fraseric insisted that he stay at court and receive the adulation of his people, Crixus had plainly refused. Not only was he fearful of another assault, but that he knew that very soon he would have to leave the safety of Chorrol. Aside from killing a dragon, which had been more harm than good as far as the secrecy of his mission went, he had accomplished nothing of note and certainly nothing of worth concerning his greater task.

He sat alone, atop one of the towers of Castle Chorrol, gazing out at the city below, still streaked with black smoke, and the Colovian Highlands around him. Afar off now the high mountains seemed, and Sancre Tor's gleaming crown he could not see at all. Yet there they lay, always ahead of him and never behind: just like his quest. As he sat here, he suddenly became aware of someone else up here with him. Turning around, he saw the Grey Fox remove her cowl and reveal Aelina on the edge of the turrent, having climbed up its side.

"There you are!" she exclaimed. "It's certainly been a while since I last saw you. Now I hear your name being chanted in every street-corner. They're saying you slew a dragon, but they must be mistaken. Dragons are the stuff of fairy tales, children's stories."

"I wish dragons were not real," Crixus replied. "But they are very real indeed, and I have fought and slain many of them."

"Must be an exciting tale to tell," she mused, removing the leather binding from off her raven hair and letting it fly in the cold morning air. "Gods, it's beautiful up here! The air is so clean and clear! Back home, the air always reeked of fish...or skooma. It's a welcome change."

"I'm glad you like it," Crixus muttered.

"So, what darkens your brow this fine morning?" she asked. Crixus told her about the assassination attempt. At this, her smile also faded. "I'm sorry. I should have been here, I could have helped you somehow."

"It's alright," Crixus sighed. "I'm alive, no thanks to my lazy-arse squire. So, then, Aelina, tell me, what have you been up to since we last parted?"

Aelina described in brief her visits to Fort Ash, and how she met the Khajiit bandit Ghar'Zhada, who had agreed to help her in her little one-woman quest to take down the Cyrodiil Thieves Guild.

"This is...very interesting," Crixus replied. "However, there is one thing that I would very much like to ask of you. It's not something I'd ask lightly, but it's very important."

"What's that?" she asked.

"I need you to break into the Arcane University," Crixus stated. "In the Imperial Capital. Specifically the Grand Library."

"Planning on stealing some priceless Akaviri scrolls?" Aelina asked.

"Not quite," Crixus stated. "Although what I would have you steal is, in a manner, related to the Akaviri. There is a charter in the Grand Library, the original charter of the Mages Guild. I want you to retrieve that and bring it to Tiraa Vilenis here in Chorrol."

"Stealing the Mages Guild charter?" she asked, a giddy smile on her face. "Just what are you planning, Crixus?"

"I see you're interested," Crixus remarked.

"Perhaps," she coyly replied. "It's certainly an interesting challenge, breaking into the Grand Library and evading the watchful eyes of the Synod just to retrieve one guild charter."

"It is for the reformation of a new Mages Guild," Crixus stated.

"A new Mages Guild?" she asked, almost in a whispering voice. "Do you have that kind of authority?"

"It's as I told you," Crixus replied. "I am the Emperor."

"Well, then," she stated, grinning coquettishly at him. "It seems then that no one can deny you anything, Your Majesty."

Crixus sighed, but found that he himself was smiling. It made him feel better having someone who found the idea of him being Emperor as much of a joke as he did himself.

"Will you do it, then?" asked Crixus.

"Yes, I suppose so," she replied.

"Bring me word in Bruma when you've been successful," Crixus returned. "I'm going there, as I had planned before."

"Ah, yes, I remember," she stated. "Why are you going there again?"

"There are some things that must be done," Crixus stated. "Great things, important things."

"Well, I hope nothing so important that you're too busy," Aelina stated. "Now that Ghar'Zhada is collected, I can spare you a bit more of my time."

"I am a very busy man," Crixus added.

"Ah, yes, becoming Emperor, reforming the Mages Guild and all," she stated. "I thought I remembered one of your companions talking something about collecting an army of hedge knights. Tell me, is all of this really necessary?"

"For the good of the Empire, yes," Crixus replied.

"I seem to recall you had quite a high opinion of the Empire as she is," Aelina remarked. "I'm surprised you'd consider her in need of change. Anyway, it's your life, live it as you will. Although, if I may suggest..."

Crixus turned about. "Yes?"

"Remember the words I said to you before," she replied.

"And which words were those?"

"More or less," she answered, not wishing to use the same vulgarity as before. "That you owe nothing to no one else but yourself. If you find yourself overwhelmed by all these things you mentioned, just remember to choose what you must do with a true heart: only then will you know that you are doing the right thing."

"Is that what you told yourself when you ran away from home?" Crixus asked.

Aelina chuckled. "Yes, I did. Don't judge me: you're not on the Ruby Throne yet, Your Majesty!"

"Shh!" Crixus shushed. "Not so loud!"

Flashing him one last smile, she donned the Grey Fox cowl and leaped off the tower, leaving Crixus once again alone. He made his way down the tower through the stairs, and came once again to Tiraa Vilenis' chambers. To his surprise, she was in a much more receptive mood than before.

"So, you come here with good news?" she asked.

"Yes, I did," Crixus stated. "How did you know?"

"Oh, I know these things, many things, in fact," she stated. "I can see some things that most others cannot. Of course, I cannot see all things at once, so don't expect me to keep a watch on you at all times and come to your rescue at all times. I have much more important things to do. Now, then, the good news?" Crixus told her that he had sent Aelina to steal for her the Mages Guild charter, to which Tiraa actually smiled.

"This is very good news," she replied. "Very good indeed! I would send you away with some appropriate gift, although I have not the knowledge of your line of work. But do give this to your friend, the Snow Elf." At this, she waved her hand and a staff floated through the air, coming to rest on her desk before Crixus. The beam was made of true ebony, and the head was fashioned of silver with a head-stone of pearl set into the top.

"This staff will serve her well," she stated. "Much more so than that cheap, Synod imitation she wields now."

"Thank you," Crixus said. "Before I leave, though, is there anything else you would like to show me?"

"Show you?" she asked, sounding a tad offended. "I'm not a prophet, that I can be called upon to read your fortunes whenever convenient. Go bother the Snow Elf for that!"

"But, I mean, about the road ahead," Crixus stated. "Well, I've decided that I will be going to Bruma soon. And I wish to know what lies ahead for me now, not in the future."

Tiraa mused. "Very well, then. I will consider going on an extended vacation from this little place. It will take me some time to pack up any essential things I may need, and to inform the Count of my absence and..."

"Be ready by morning," Crixus stated. "That's when I leave."

* * *

Crixus had less luck trying to convince Count Fraseric to let him go. With one on his side who could slay dragons, Gregor Fraseric was reluctant to let Crixus leave him so soon. Every argument Crixus made for his departure was rebutted by at least two more from the Count against it. Finally, Crixus groaned and took the Count aside.

"I am on a mission for the Emperor," he whispered. "And I am acting under the utmost secrecy and with his authority. I must go, and the Emperor's commands must not be delayed."

At this, Count Fraseric reluctantly relented. He did, however, seemed rather tickled to be let in on this clandestine news, that he was helping a servant of the Emperor on a secret mission. Before Crixus left, he made Count Fraseric swear to him that, if the need arose, he could count on his support. Gregor Fraseric agreed and so Crixus was permitted to leave Chorrol.

That evening, Crixus slept not, for fear of another assassination attempt. All that night he stayed awake, a lone candle by his bed. He looked over the last of the letters, several of them from other names interested in reforming the Mages Guild. He decided that he would show these letters to Tiraa Vilenis during their travel and see if she agreed with the choices. It would be a long journey from Chorrol to Bruma, and they would all feel every bump and sore place after their journey before they reached the end of the road.

In the morning, a weary Crixus woke up to find that he had fallen asleep at his desk. Being that he was still alive, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, bathed his face, then prepared for the great journey ahead. It would take no more than five days to reach Bruma from here, even by the main road, for it was a long and dangerous trek, mostly uphill, into the regions of the Colovian Highlands which towered over all others here in Cyrodiil. The tops also were peaked with snow, especially during the beginning of late autumn. This was, after all, the month of Frostfall.

It was about thirty minutes past the hour of eight in the morning when those of Crixus' company were ready to depart. Grey Fox and Greyhart were nowhere to be seen, as usual, having left for the Imperial City. While they were thus preparing, two figures appeared, both of them as outlandish as each other. One was Arcadia Valga, dressed in armor that was far too big fo her: the other was Tiraa Vilenis, wearing gaudy Dunmer robes of various colors with leather armor about her shins and wrists.

"What the fuck is this?" asked Viator.

"Didn't your master say I was going with you?" Tiraa asked.

"But...look at yourself!" Viator mocked. "You look as ready to face the world as fucking Larth here!" He gestured to the young, bald, Nibenese man clinging from the back of Boderic's horse.

"I may not be some foolish, blundering Colovian knight," she retorted. "But I am a battle-mage by training, and could certainly defeat any of you in battle."

"And what about you?" Crixus spoke to Arcadia.

"The Count has requested," she sighed, clearly annoyed at being here. "That I accompany you on your travels. I am to oversee your protection and insure that nothing harms the Hero of Chorrol."

"That won't be necessary," Crixus stated. "I have quite enough hedge knights as it is, thank you very much."

"By your leave," she added. "I'd much rather be going with you than staying here in Chorrol. At least in Bruma I can be avenged on some of those beastly Nords."

"That's a worthy reason," Crixus stated. "Tell me, do you have any real skill in battle?"

"I've never been in a battle," Arcadia replied.

"Then you are of no use to me," Crixus answered.

"Nay, hold!" interjected Boderic. "I will take her and train her as my squire. She will learn how to fight, to defend herself, and will, in time, be a useful asset to us. I daresay, she would make an excellent addition to the Knights of the Nine."

"I won't join any order," she retorted. "Unless it be the Knights of the Burning Hawk."

"I cannot allow this," Crixus stated.

"Why not?" Boderic asked. "You yourself said that we need all the help we can get."

"Besides," Viator chuckled. "I'd love to see this b*tch get her yellow arse handed to her by the Nords up in Bruma."

"Silence!" Alcedonia quipped. "She has every right to fight with us, the same as you!"

"I agree," Tiraa stated. "She goes with us."

Crixus scowled, once again angry at not having the final say in every matter. The departure was postponed for another hour as horses and extra supplies were prepared for Tiraa and Arcadia. Thus at last they left Chorrol, numbering now eleven (not counting Drogon and the Grey Fox). Once all were in readiness, Crixus led their little band out of the city and prepared to set forth on the Black Road. He then had Petruvius blow a horn and out of the woods came Drogon, to the surprise of all.

"Don't be alarmed," Crixus said, a knowing and confident grin on his face. "He's on our side."

From there they carried on with their journey, traveling first around the southeastern end of the hill of Chorrol before turning north onto the Orange Road. This road carried along the western borders of the Great Forest, keeping ever to the foothills of the Colovian Highlands, until at last it turned north to Bruma. On this road they would follow for a long time, coming, as Crixus had designed, to Sancre Tor first and foremost. From there he would leave the rest at the Golden Hill and strike out on his own to Bruma to meet with Count Edvald.

The going was easy for many miles, as they passed through forests with no sign of beasts or animists on one side or the other. On and on they went, through the road that wound through the Great Forest, until they came to a point where the road went up a hill that was a lower arm of the Highlands. Here they paused, for up ahead they could see dust kicked up from the road at the top of the next hill.

"Sir!" Petruvius spoke up, gesturing towards the dust. "It would be wise to be wary going forward. That might be an ambush in the making."

"If so," Crixus stated. "Then those making said ambush are fools. Nevertheless, we are strong and many, and we have Drogon on our side. With him, no one dare stand against us."

On and on they went, but the dust remained in the sky for a few minutes more. The top of the hill grew closer and closer, until at last they reached the top. The afternoon was waning and the sun was getting on toward evening, though there was enough light for travel. They journeyed on toward the bottom of the hill, where they saw a great haze of red, orange and gold as the autumn trees here were already in their bronze hues. Immediately before them, someone had cut down a great tree and pushed it into the middle of the road, blocking the path through which they must go.

"To arms!" Crixus shouted. "We've walked into a trap! To arms, to arms!"

Swords were drawn from those in the company, when suddenly Crixus noticed, to the left, rising from behind large boulders, several soldiers in the colors of the Imperial Legion. They had bows in their hands, which were bent, fixed with arrows and pointed down at his group.

From the woods to the right, more Imperial troops appeared, some of them in the dark crimson colors of the Penitus Oculatus. For a moment Crixus froze, fearful that his past had come back to haunt him. He could not see Severus Maro's face among them, and he feared what might happen in this narrow place.

"Sir!" Petruvius cried out. "More of them coming from the rear!"

"You are surrounded!" one of the Oculati spoke to Crixus, striding forth to meet him. "Up there I have the finest archers of the Red Legions. At my signal, they can fill this path full of arrows without harming any of my men. Tell your men to stand down."

"You heard him," Crixus stated. "We're just law-abiding travelers, on our way to the holy mountain of Sancre Tor, and the Primature of the Eight. We have no quarrel with you." Slowly they let their weapons fall, though Petruvius still kept his hands on his sword.

"Which one of you is Servius Crixus?" the Oculati asked.

"I am," Crixus answered.

"You're under arrest," the Oculati stated. "Lay down your weapons and surrender to Imperial justice."

"Arrest?" Crixus returned. "How can I be under arrest? I'm a loyal son of the Empire, a veteran of the Red Legions! How am I under arrest?"

"Ulfric Stormcloak also fought in the Red Legions," the Oculati replied. "And his treason was no less than yours."

"Treason?" Crixus asked. "Am I being charged with treason? Who charges me with treason? And against whom? I have never raised my sword against the Empire, the Emperor or the Elder Council! I demand to know why I am being charged with treason!"

"You're not owed anything, treacherous scum!" the Oculati retorted. "Now get down from there or I'll have my men shoot you down."

"Don't give him the chance, sir!" one of the Legionnaires stated. "Let the criminal scum fight. I've been dying to thrust my sword into someone!"

"Stand your blade, soldier," the Oculati calmed. "We have our orders."

"And what will become of my men if I surrender to you?" asked Crixus.

"They will die," the Oculati stated. "They are partial to your treachery and must be eliminated."

"Let my men live," Crixus offered. "And I will come with you peacefully."

"This is not a bargain, treacherous scum!" the Oculati ordered. "Now are you coming with us or do we have to drag your rotting corpse back to the Imperial City?"

"Look at us!" Crixus retorted. "I have a minotaur at my command! One word from me and he'll charge your ranks. Now you might be able to kill me, but how many of your men will be going back to their ranks if he starts fighting? Do you really want the Emperor's personal guards slaughtered by a mad minotaur, especially while under your command? How ever will they pay you for this foolishness?"

"He's bluffing, sir!" the soldier retorted. "Let me run this scum threw the throat with my sword, then we'll see if he can order his beast to attack us!"

"Stand down!" ordered the Oculati. He then turned to Crixus, holding him long in his gaze. At last he turned to his men and ordered them to stand down. At this, Crixus stepped off Shadowmere and walked towards them. Without another word, Legion soldiers seized Crixus and pulled him into their ranks, beating and kicking him like a common criminal. At once he remembered Whiterun, when he at last decided to aid Eirik and the Sons of Skyrim. But now he was being beaten for treason, for something he definitely deserved. For surely the Penitus Oculatus, of all people, learned who it was who had slain the Emperor.

"You're going to the Bastion, criminal scum!" one soldier leered into his ear. "We're gonna lock you away and throw away the key. You're going to die in there, do you hear me?"

"If he even survives the trip, that is," another Imperial Legionnaire drawled, his tongue leering out to lick Crixus' face.

"Fuck off," Crixus retorted.

A swift kick in the groin from the first one and a fist to the back of the head from the second one sent Crixus sprawling onto the ground, where he was once again kicked, beaten and bloodied until he was being led forward like one half asleep. He could not hear what went on behind his back, or if the Penitus Oculatus had honored his agreement and let his friends live. His world was growing dim with the loss of blood and the many blows to the head, and all that he heard was what the two guards muttered near at hand.

"Do you see these colors, traitor?" the first one said, flashing the red of his uniform. "That means I'm a soldier of the Red Legion. Do you know what that means, eh? That means I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you don't get to say shite about it, you little cunt!" He delivered a swift punch to Crixus' gut, sending him doubling over in pain.

"You'll learn respect, scum-bag," the second one leered. "By the time we reach the Imperial City. One way or another, you'll learn respect." He laughed, revealing rotten, twisted and mangled teeth. Crixus said nothing, for he was half-way between life and death, so it seemed. But, as he had done when confronted with the Night Mother, face to face with a living corpse, he resorted to the only thing he had left; what he openly mocked, yet always came to in times of great distress.

_Divines,_ he prayed inside. _Save me._

* * *

**(AN: Finally get more interesting things going on, as well as a sub-plot of more anti-Nord racism in Cyrodiil and the Elder Council. _ColonelKillaBee_, a user on tumblr [of all places to find common sense in an _Elder Scrolls_ fan!] stated that the Empire refused to commit their Legions to ending the Civil War, choosing instead to let Tullius gain troops from the loyal Nords of Skyrim and to let the Nords kill each other. Now this is actually canon from the game [which i ignored in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness/The Dragon and the Bear_, hence the need for further clarity], and, despite my brother saying that the civil war is "Skyrim's problem", even though he also argues that the civil war threatens the Empire's stability, it shows that the Elder Council either A] don't care about Skyrim and her people, B] desire to see a large portion of the Nord population wiped out through in-fighting or C] are on the payroll of the Thalmor, who do profit from the Empire being in turmoil and would certainly love to see humans tear each other apart, especially the Nords, which they hate so much.)**

**(I have done a TREMENDOUS amount of research into _Elder Scrolls_ lore for these stories, and try to do my best in making them as accurate as well as accessible. Sometimes i do fail [like when i likened the bearded Dwemer with Durin's Folk], and sometimes i do not find anything substantial and have to extrapolate [like with House Sadras, or that no lore i've ever found stated that Nerevarine ended slavery]: other times, i am forced to deal with BS kirkbride-isms like that everything is false and true at the same time. I mean, they keep pushing that the Japanese [-cough- Akaviri] are nothing but contradictory, even though Alduin's Wall is pretty cut and dry, one of the spheres of one of the Nine is "contradiction", as well as many of their individual aspects, and that you can't trust anything anyone puts in any of the books. What is the point of canon if kirkbride is going to come over with a red felt-tip pen and scribble contradictions all over it? [kind of like that douchey elf in the 1st Edition of the Pocket Guide to the Empire]. Even his dump on everything post-_Morrowind, _ie. _C0da_, claims that all fanfiction is true!)**


	38. Guilty Until Proven Innocent

**(AN: With a system of "guilty till proven innocent", it's no wonder the hero in every _Elder Scrolls_ game [with the exception of _ESO_] ends up in prison! Also, it kind of bothers me how "sword-happy" the guards in _Oblivion_ are compared to the _Skyrim_ hold guards: i mean, the hold guards just talk smack ["let me guess, someone stole your sweet-roll" or "whoa there, watch the magic!"], whereas the city guards are literally out for blood ["i hope you rot, criminal scum!", "then pay with your blood!" or, my personal favorite...-zooms up into all of your faces- "STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM! NOBODY BREAKS THE LAW ON _MY_ WATCH!")**

**(One thing i realized with one of my villains in this story is that she's so subtle, manipulating events from behind the scenes, that Crixus might never meet her at all. So i thought i'd throw in a little extra something in this chapter, just to have our villain and our anti-hero meet again.)**

* * *

**Guilty Until Proven Innocent**

The next three days for Servius Crixus were a living hell. As soon as the Penitus Oculatus took him into their custody, he was stripped of all of his weapons, gear, valuables and trinkets, until he was left standing in the middle of the Imperial camp, naked and chained to two soldiers. The soldiers themselves seemed none too keen on treating their prisoner with any manner of courtesy. The first two he had encountered were the worst, with one squatting on the ground by a tree, relieving himself, then picking up his shit to fling in Crixus' face, and the other striking him over and over with the back of his hand.

At last, the Oculatus captain ordered the company to begin their march to the Imperial City. Crixus was roughly thrown into a sackcloth robe without the decency of being washed down first, and shoved into a caged cart with his hands bound in iron fetters. Then the company left their hiding place and journeyed south towards the Red Ring Road. The journey was miserable by day and by night. By day he was left alone in the cage, without food or water. Many times he tried to speak to his captors, to ask them why he was being taken, but they answered him with silence. If he became ornery in his demands, one with a whip would lash at the bars of his cage until he was silent. At night, when the group made their camp, he was taken out of the cage, chained between the two guards, and kept in a secure place within their little campground. As the night wore on, each of his guards were replaced by fresh ones, so that he had no opportunity to capitalize on their weariness. Once again he had neither food nor water, nor even a blanket to warm him though the nights were growing cold.

Thus for three miserable days he spent his time on the journey to the Imperial City. On the last night, as they were within the basin around Lake Rumare, within sight of the White-Gold Tower, Crixus was once again shoved between two guards in the midst of the camp, shivering and shaking in the darkness. When he finally fell asleep he could not guess, but he found himself once again free and clean, clad in the armor of the Imperial Red Legions. He stood alone atop the White-Gold Tower and, to his amazement, a great dragon lay on the side of the Tower opposite him. Much larger was this dragon than any of the others he had seen, and its scales were silvery-white, and golden light emanated from its form. When it spoke, it spoke as the other dragons he had spoken had, with a voice which he could understand, but the words were in the Common Tongue and not the _Dovahzul_.

"So you have come at last," quoth the dragon. "As I knew you would."

"And who are you?" Crixus asked. "Are you Du'ulnahvith?"

"I am the one who is above all," stated the dragon. "My power reaches beyond the walls of this world into the very fabric of time and eternity. I am Akatosh, the dragon god of time."

"Another god, eh?" Crixus retorted. "I've had enough of your kind. Always showing up when not wanted, giving no help when help is needed. Fuck off!"

The dragon made a low grumble, but answered in like manner as before: "Was it not you, Dragonborn, who pleaded for us to save you? Now that we have come with guidance, you spurn our every attempt to help you. The Aedra cannot help mortals if mortals will not accept their aid."

"Bull-shite," Crixus stubbornly defied. "You're not here to help me, you're just here to chide me, like all the rest of them! Aren't you?"

"Hmm, your blasphemy aside," said Akatosh. "No, I have not come here to chide you, only to inform you and warn you. I have seen the vicissitudes of your fate even as they were written in ages long ago, before your ancestor, Hjalti Early-Beard, was born. I know the final outcome. But, as with all mortals, fate never stands still. Each action you pursue alters your course, though the ultimate effect may be as it was once written. Therefore I have come to warn you, Dragonborn, of what lies ahead."

"Is that so?" Crixus returned. "And what lies ahead?"

"Two choices stand before you," quoth Akatosh. "Neither path is wholly free from pain and suffering. To rise or fall, that is your choice. You may find that, though you rise, you may fall and, though you fall, you will rise again. Make your choice soon before time runs out."

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Crixus asked. "I don't understand..." But he had no further chance to speak, for the vision faded as a bucket of cold water was splashed over his face.

"Wake up, criminal scum!" one of the soldiers said. "Today's the day: today you come to your final home, the Imperial Bastion."

The last leg of the journey, through the Cerunian District, under the Walled Approach and through the Shield Quarter to at last reach the Bastion, was even worse than the previous days had been combined. Through the Cerunian District, those who saw the cart gaped and stared, but said nothing more. For Crixus, even the stares of the Colovian and Nibenese people were beyond agony. He longed for quiet, solitude and avoiding attention, and to be glared upon like a common criminal by educated, civilized folk made him feel even worse than he already felt. No one in the Walled Approach gave him any notice.

However, once the convoy reached the Shield Quarter, all hell broke loose. The Dunmer practically rioted around the prisoner: not for the sake of releasing him, but merely because now there was something new against which to revel and riot. Rotted food and shit were thrown at the cage, those closer spat at Crixus, while those in the houses emptied chamber pots onto the cage as it passed by under their awnings. The guards, who were never used to this kind of brutality - even the city guards avoided going into the Shield Quarter - quivered around the cage, their shields raised and their hands upon their weapons.

At last, filthy, drenched and miserable, Crixus was brought into the courtyard of the Imperial Bastion. The guards there brought him out of the cage and led him, bound in irons as he was, down the same corridors he and the Grey Fox had walked to rescue Jauffre. He was brought into the deepest cells, where there were no shafts of light from the outside and torch-light was dim. He was thrown into the cell and the door locked, then his jailers departed from him, leaving him alone in utter darkness.

Time passed without knowledge as he sat in the darkness of his cell, his back to the cold, slimy wall or curled up on the filthy, rat-infested straw on the floor. There was a pile of such on the other end of his cell, but when he approached it the sound of scurrying rats sent him away from it in revulsion. Waking and sleeping were essentially the same, one long period of silent darkness followed by yet another. No visions or dreams came to him in this dark place, nor were there any visitations from the guards or anyone else.

* * *

At last, when Crixus had lost all comprehension of day and night, light came at last into his dark prison. The glow of a torch could be seen, from which his light-starved eyes drank like a man lost in the desert, only to come upon a timely oasis of cool, clear water. In the light, he espied the large figure of his jailer and two Imperial soldiers in steel armor.

"Get up, prisoner!" demanded the jailer. "It's time for your trial."

"Trial?" Crixus asked. "What trial?"

"Your trial for treason, of course!" laughed the jailer. "Shouldn't take too long. These things are usually formalities: the verdict's a foregone conclusion before you ever stand before your judges."

"What will my sentence be?" Crixus asked.

"A public execution," the jailer replied. "You should be lucky, though, if your trial is over and done with today. The longer the robes upstairs have to wait, the more impatient they'll become. Then..." He chuckled. "...then, baldy, it's off for me to oil up the torture chamber."

The door was opened and the guards walked into Crixus' cell. Before he could react, he found himself struck on the head and sent into the darkness of sleep. Minutes later he was yanked back into waking by a bucket of cold water splashed unceremoniously into his face and dragged to his feet by the two guards. He saw nothing, for a burlap sack had been placed over his head as he was being led to his trial.

After ten minutes, the sack was removed and he found himself in a long hall made of white stones. Behind him he saw a great multitude of Colovian, Nibenese and elvish folk seated in chairs and booths of various rank and file. Before him stood eleven chairs, in which were seated eleven proud, gray and white-haired Imperial men in the rich robes usually reserved for the House of Nobles. In the center was a man of middling age, thin and wiry with a short beard and most of the hair on his head having long since fallen out. He wore a golden chain about his neck set with a ruby in diamond fashion upon the chain. It was not the Amulet of Kings, which had once belonged to the Septims, but a poor imitation: one of the necklaces of the Elder Council, only this one was much loftier and grander than all the rest.

"Servius Crixus," the man in the center of the old councilors spoke. "You stand before the Elder Council accused of treason and sedition against the Elder Council and, by association, against the Ruby Throne and His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. In accordance with the Alessian Doctrine, you are held by this court a convicted traitor: the burden of proof lies in your breast to prove your innocence before gods and men."

"Who is it that accuses me?" Crixus asked. "May I at least see the one who accuses me of these crimes?"

"You have no right to demand the privilege to face your accusers!" the older man retorted. "You need face only your judges. We will describe in detail the charges against you. The charge of treason is that you did commit in secret plots with the aim to usurp the authority of the Elder Council and the Emperor and place yourself upon the Ruby Throne as a potentate!" The crowds murmured in disagreement behind Crixus, who realized that, while the Elder Council certainly had already made up their minds, the people viewing the trial did not. He hoped that he could use this to his advantage, but was suddenly swept off his feet by the reading of the second charge.

"The charge of sedition is that you attempted to raise an army of militant hedge knights, swearing allegiance not to the Elder Council but to yourself, to carry out your treasonous actions!"

Crixus froze. How did they know about the knights he was collecting? This alone was a charge almost as bad as him being accused of killing the Emperor: thankfully that had not been brought forth, but it was little comfort to him. He had been under the belief that he had been both careful and secretive in his business: with this knowledge, he feared that everything he had spoken or even thought in presumed secrecy was now known to the Elder Council.

"What do you have to say in your defense?" asked the judge.

"Who are those who testify of my guilt?" asked Crixus. "Let them step forward and give their testimony!"

"I told you that you have no right to face your accusers!" the judge returned. "You will answer the question or you will be held in contempt of court!"

Several cries of protest arose from the crowds behind Crixus. Clearly they were not happy with these proceedings. Taking this to heart, Crixus cleared his throat, then made his first defense.

"I am a soldier of the Red Legions," he stated. "Is this indeed how the Elder Council treats those who have fought, bled and suffered for the Emperor and for the Empire? Thrown into cages like dogs, beaten, whipped, shat upon, abused and thrown away into a dark hole? Is this the payment for my loyal service to the Emperor? I have spent my entire life in the service to the Emperor: I reject the first charge altogether." At this, the crowds behind him began to rise up and chant, cry and demand that the prisoner be released.

"Order!" shouted the judge in the center. Slowly the crowds were silenced, then he turned and faced Crixus. "And what for the second charge?"

"Long ago," Crixus began. "There were orders of knights: noble, renowned men of valor, skilled in their arms, who roamed the counties, defending the people from the vile reprobates, wild beasts and other dangers of the world. Is this indeed what the Elder Council wishes? That one who wishes to restore such noble orders, only to protect and serve the people of the Empire, be punished like a common criminal?" Once again the crowds erupted in fury, consternation and cries of "Free him!" Angrily the old man in the center rose to his feet, an accusatory finger pointed at Crixus.

"You have made a mockery of the Elder Council and this court!" he shouted. "I will not have the proceedings disrupted by your attempts to cause chaos! This court is adjourned!"

"This is madness!" Crixus shouted as the guards pulled him away from before the bar. "I demand an advocate!"

"You shall have no advocate," the judge returned. "As one convicted of high treason, you have no right to an advocate!"

"Then let me call four men to speak in my defense!" Crixus stated. The judge, Lexerus Buteo, waved the guards to stop and Crixus was brought back to the bar. "The burden of proof is on me to prove my innocence. Let these four men be brought before this esteemed council, that they may prove my innocence."

"Give me their names," said the judge.

Crixus' first thoughts were of his companions, but then recalled that, for all he knew, they might be dead. The Penitus Oculatus hadn't told him if the agreement had been honored: for all he knew, they were all dead. But he had other names in mind, others who were still alive.

"Severus Maro, commander of the Penitus Oculatus," Crixus began. "Zeno Platorius, the acting Count of Kvatch, Remus Hassildor, Count of Skingrad, and Gregor Fraseric, Count of Chorrol. Let these come before this body: they will prove my innocence."

"Council will deliberate," Buteo stated. "In the mean time, this court is adjourned. You will return to your cell to await a convenient time for the continuation of this trial."

Crixus was taken back to his cell, with the burlap sack thrown over his head. But this time he was very pleased with himself. From Platorius and Fraseric he had oaths to come to his help if the need arose: Fraseric worshiped the ground on which he walked, and Platorius, knowing who had raised him up to the position of Count, would not refuse. Severus was family and a member of the Penitus Oculatus: his testimony, which undoubtedly would favor him, would not be discounted by the court. Hassildor had promised to protect his family, and he hoped that he would do so in this case. Nevertheless, he already had at least three witnesses to speak in his defense. A smile was on his face as the sack was removed and he was thrown back into his cell.

"I will be saved," he muttered to himself. "My days in this cell are numbered."

* * *

But the precise number of the days which Crixus believed were left of his stay in prison he could not guess. For light was not brought to him and his witnesses did not visit him. In the darkness, Crixus went over the accusations in his mind. They went hand in hand, and if he could disprove the charge of treason, then the other charge would not be seen as treacherous. This went on for time out of mind in the darkness, broken only by his weariness when he fell into dreamless sleep. At last, the light appeared again and he was knocked unconscious, bound, then splashed awake, hooded and taken once again into the very same hall. There were people behind him and the eleven members of the Elder Council before him.

"Servius Crixus," the old man in the center spoke. "I, the esteemed Lexerus Buteo, High Chancellor of the Elder Council, begin once again your trial of treason and sedition. Do you understand the charges brought against you, or do you need them reiterated?"

"I understand," Crixus stated. He looked around and saw no sign of those he had summoned. "Although I do wish to ask one thing of this esteemed body, Your Highness."

"Speak."

"Where are my witnesses?" asked Crixus. "I asked for them to come, why are they not here?"

"Severus Maro has disappeared," Buteo replied. "In the wake of the murder of his aunt, Selvia Maro, Countess of Anvil. Of which, if I am not mistaken, you are accused. Let the record now stand that Servius Crixus is accused of treason on two counts - against the Elder Council and against the Throne of Anvil - of sedition...and murder." The crowds were divided in this. Some were shocked, others clamored for his death, while others argued against them that this could not be.

"Count Hassildor has not left Skingrad all of his life," Buteo stated. "It is therefore highly unlikely that he will come to your rescue. As for the others, since you now lack the requirement of three witnesses for a defense, the Council has seen fit to waive their invitations. Their presence hardly matters in any case."

"What is this?" Crixus asked. "This is unjust! You charge a man with a crime, yet prevent him from calling forth witnesses to speak in his defense?"

"You have already caused this trial enough delay," Buteo retorted, pointing a wiry finger at Crixus. "It is only by the good graces of this Council that we have decided to expedite the hearing, rather than hold you in contempt of court." He returned his hand to the bench.

"But why have I been charged with Countess Maro's death?" Crixus asked. "I am innocent of this! I was in Chorrol when I myself received message of her death. How could I have killed her miles away?"

"It is possible that you have connections with...certain clandestine assassin guilds," Buteo replied. "This is indeed made more likely, considering that Count Cassius Urtius of Anvil has also named you as having played a part, not only in the death of Selvia Maro, but of Gaius Maro, a member of the Penitus Oculatus!"

"It's a lie!" Crixus blurted out. His hands were shaking in his chains. How did they find out about Gaius' death? No one saw him in the shrine of Talos in Markarth. How could anyone have possibly known about the event and who was behind it?

"Can you prove that you were not complicit in these actions?" asked Buteo.

"Well..." stammered Crixus.

"Then your guilt stands," he continued. "Now, concerning the charge of sedition..."

"Good people of Cyrodiil!" Crixus pleaded, turning to the audience. "I ask you, is this just? I am a son of Cyrodiil, the same as any one of you! I have bled for the greater good of the Empire, for your safety!"

"Servius Crixus, turn and address the court!" ordered Buteo.

"Am I to be charged with nepoticide and parricide without sufficient evidence brought forth for me to refute?" he pleaded. "Is this..."

"I demand that you turn and address the court!" Buteo demanded. "Or else I will hold you in contempt!"

"Is this what the Empire has come to?" he asked, speaking both to himself as well as to the people. "I tell you all that I have committed none of the crimes for which I have been accused. But my judges have found it expedient to have me convicted without a legitimate trial! This is a farce!" The crowds rose up in cries of "Freedom!", rallying to Crixus' cause. Of the eleven men serving as his judge, Lexerus Buteo seemed the most furious, his face red and contorted with rage.

"Clear the hall!" shouted Buteo angrily. "Take this traitorous scum back to his cell! This court is postponed once again!"

"Travesty!" Crixus shouted in retort. "No true judge would treat a veteran of the Great War this way!"

"Be it known that you are now held in contempt of court!" ordered Buteo. "We will end this trial by one way or another! Begone!"

Crixus was not taken back to his cell immediately from the courtroom. Instead he was brought down into the torture chamber of the Imperial Bastion. He was tied up to a rack, but he was not stretched. Instead he was stripped and left to remain, fully stretched and naked as the torturer came in. He was a middle-aged Imperial man with hungry eyes and a staff in his hand.

"Well now, what have we here?" he asked. "Someone must have angered the Elder Council to be down here. Now, then, let's try this the easy way. Do you confess to the charges brought against you?"

"No," Crixus retorted. "I am innocent!"

The man smiled, so much like Benjin Surilie that it chilled Crixus to the bone to be tied up and helpless in a room with someone like him. "I was hoping you'd say that. We're going to have so much fun together, you and I."

For all that day and most of the night he remained stretched up on the rack, subject to every cruel device the torturer could imagine. He was scourged with whips, shocked with lightning bolts from the torturer's staff, stretched upon the rack, made to lie down as a cloth was placed over his face and water poured upon it, or subjected to a cruel Akaviri style of torture that had water poured onto the forehead one drop at a time until the victim became frantic. By the time the torturer had given up from sheer exhaustion, Crixus was shaking and shivering all over, feeling his forehead as if the water droplets had bored a hole there. His arm was set and he was sent back into his cell.

The next day featured more of the same, with something new added to further agitate Crixus and force him to confess. He was tied down and the torturer brought before him. The old man said that he could go free if he answered one simple question: how many fingers he held up on his right hand. Crixus answered five, and it was correct. Instead the torturer had him beat violently by the large jailer, who enjoyed helping the torturer and left many bruises.

"Come now, good man," the torturer cooed in a voice as smooth as oil and sweet as honey. "Do you not wish to be free?"

"Yes," coughed Crixus.

"Then let me tell you this secret, my friend," the torturer said, trying to appeal to Crixus' lack of companionship. "I don't really want to do this, you know? All those things I said before, that was just part of my job, trying to intimidate you. But I see that you are beyond such measures. The truth is that I am your friend, your only friend here. I have spoken to the High Chancellor regarding your innocence, and he has agreed to pardon you of all charges. You will be a free man. All you need do is answer one question, a formality, really, to show that you have been thoroughly interrogated." He held up his right hand to the torch-light before Crixus' face, showing five fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Five," Crixus replied.

The torturer gave a gesture and the jailer went to work on him. This they repeated several times, with the jailer taking the part of 'the bad guy', doing the stretching and the water tortures and the beatings while the torturer pried at Crixus' mind, trying to make him lie to free himself and break his will. After an eternity in the dimly lit room, his tormentors his only company, the guards returned.

"Get him up and get him dressed," the guard said. "Orders."

Crixus was shaking so violently when he was brought up that they had to dress him in his own rags. After his head was covered in the burlap sack, he was carried up through the darkness and deposited somewhere he knew not. The sack was removed and he found himself in the last place he expected to be: a rich dining room.

The table was set with silver plates and utensils, with golden candlesticks giving off their warm glow. The windows were all closed, causing the light to strike off the surface of every gilded and silvery thing. The dining room was filled with light from their shining and glistening reflections. On the plates were all manner of delicacies, such as the high society of Cyrodiil feasted upon. Such a feast was so great that even the Surilie Brothers feast was meager in comparison. Shivering as he was, the lights seemed to dance around him and make his head light.

As he was thus enamored with everything about him, the door opened and a tall Altmer woman dressed in the black and gold robes of the Thalmor entered the room. Crixus recognized _her_ immediately. Before he had seen _her_ from afar, clad in gilded moon-stone armor in the blooded Llewynn Pass that fateful day in the 180th year of the Fourth Era, the year of the Treaty of Stros M'Kai. Now for the first time in over twenty years he saw _her_ again in living flesh. It was at this moment that he realized just how reasonable Eirik's hatred of the Thalmor could be.

"Servius Crixus," Lady Arannelya greeted. "The Hero of the Battle of Llewynn Pass. Commander of the 9th Legion. Prefect of Mournhold." She walked slowly and methodically over to her chair, set across from his, and sat down.

"Would you care for something to eat?" she asked.

"Wha..." stammered Crixus.

"It's been a long time since we last saw each other," she stated. "I see the years have been unusually kind to you. A pity we're not yet at war. I would relish the opportunity to face you again in battle, seeing as how you're still in your prime at the age when all the others of your race are over the hill. Despite your...human shortcomings, I respect you as an adversary. If we cannot fight, at least let us eat in this time of peace and talk of profitable things."

"Is this..." muttered Crixus. "Part of my torture?"

"I plucked you out from that affair for the occasion," Lady Arannelya replied. She took the golden goblet from her table and gracefully sipped the wine. "Come now, don't be shy. If I had intended on killing you, we wouldn't be having this conversation now."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. His body was not shivering as violently as before, but his hands were still shaking. "I was your enemy, as you were mine. Why not kill me now?"

"Your actions have been a great help to our cause," she replied. "I wish for our...silent partnership, if you will, to continue."

"Right," muttered Crixus. "So how do you figure into all of this? I thought you had returned to Alinor after the Treaty of Stros M'Kai."

"Which you had no small part in bringing about, I might add," she commented. "The official story is that the Empire had soundly beaten the Dominion during the War, which, after five years, let us realize that a treaty with Hammerfell was necessary." She chuckled slightly. "A comforting lie, one to rebuild the broken ego of the Imperial people after the bloody reality of war. The truth is that we had almost recovered from our loses during the War, and the Alik'r were more than willing to accept our rule, seeing as how they hated your Empire and wanted only for things 'to be as they once were'. We promised to leave them alone if they served us, which they gratefully did. There was...resistance, but none as strong as the 9th Legion."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Crixus. "I thought the Thalmor were tight-lipped."

"That we are," she noted with a smile. "And what I have told you is ancient history, to show my...appreciation for your efforts. Surely it must be hard, these many years, never recognized for the part you played in the grand scheme of things." She took another small sip. "As for myself, I am here to fill the position left vacant by the...disappearance of Elenwen, of which you have had a great part."

Crixus reached for the goblet near him, his hands still shaking beyond his control. With both hands he seized the goblet and sipped the wine. After just enough to excite his dry palette with its bitterness, he placed it back on the table and turned to his host. "That still doesn't answer what you have to do with me...or this trial."

"As I explained to you earlier," she continued. "I wish for us to continue to work together, as we have done thus far independently. There need not be any significant change: you will still conduct your affairs accordingly and we will continue to remain invisible."

"What do you want in return?" asked Crixus.

"Who says I want anything in return?" Arannelya chuckled. The sound was demure and condescending.

"This isn't some barbaric place like Skyrim," Crixus replied, mustering up all of his strength to speak. "This is Cyrodiil. No one gives anything freely but that they expect something in return. As the ambassador of the Thalmor, you would know this, would you not?"

"If this were indeed the case," Lady Arannelya said. "Surely I should have made my intentions clear at once. But I have spoken nothing of any agreement yet, only the nature of our continued cooperation."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "And what if I choose not to cooperate? What then?"

"Ooh, dear Crixus," she tutted. "I took you to be much more discerning than that."

"Please don't play coy," Crixus replied. "I can't stand it."

"Yes, your time in the torture chambers of the Imperial Bastion must have left you little patience for coyness," Lady Arannelya noted. "Still, it must confound you, all alone in your dark cell, wondering how High Chancellor Buteo learned about the murder of your poor cousin Gaius, or how he linked it to you when you were so careful."

Crixus froze. How could the Thalmor know about what he did? Through all of his time in Skyrim, he had stubbornly refused to believe that the Empire would allow the Thalmor to infiltrate every strata of the Imperial hierarchy. Whenever he had been faced with the truth - in the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, in the Blue Palace and again with the speed with which Thelgil amassed legions of Dominion forces to occupy Skyrim during the insurrection - he had always dismissed it, saying that the Empire was wise to keep their enemies close so that they might learn from them and know how to defeat them. It was a poor excuse, for it wore thinner and thinner each time the truth was thrown back into his face.

"Shut up..." he breathed, no more strength to shout or rave.

"Or how the Elder Council found out about your little planned insurrection," she continued. "Hedge knights, really?" She chuckled again, a bit louder than before but still with the hint of mocking. "Silence and submission, two things easily purchased in these desperate times. Loyalty, too, can be bought, but where loyalty cannot be bought, submission will suffice." She took a sip from her goblet. "The knightly orders had their day, and the Stormcrown Interregnum saw many of them wiped out in their bid to take the Ruby Throne. The Medes insured that no other orders could be raised to challenge their authority, as it was sanctioned by the Primates, a convocation of men, and not the Eight: the disappearance of the Amulet of Kings during the Oblivion Crisis, you know. Therefore they made all remaining orders swear fealty to the Emperor and the Elder Council."

"I don't need a history lesson," Crixus replied. "Especially one from you."

"Personally, I think it's wise to respect history," Lady Arannelya answered. "After all, failing to recognize the mistakes of the past dooms one to repeat them. Titus Mede recognized the mistakes of past Emperors in deifying Tiber Septim and did his best to rectify this doctrinal error when we presented it to him." Taking one of the silver utensils, she began to indulge in the food upon her plate. After taking a bite of the filet, she chewed, swallowed, then spoke: "You would be wise to follow his example."

"History is a funny thing," Crixus stated. "The Dunmer believe that history is fluid, like the future. All those facts, dates and events just a pile of contradictions."

"That is why Dunmer are inferior," Lady Arannelya calmly replied. "They remain mired in tradition, just like the Nords. But you are a Colovian, a man of the Empire. You know the qualities of progress, the same as Titus Mede did."

"And because I'm so progressive and multicultural," Crixus asked. "You say that I should continue helping you?"

"I only said that these things give you the wisdom to see that our continued mutual cooperation would be beneficial," she answered. "Of course...you can refuse."

"Is that so?" asked Crixus. "And what would happen then? You never told me."

Lady Arannelya chuckled. "I assumed I didn't have to." She then took another bite.

"Humor me, then."

"Your presence here," she stated, after swallowing. "Demonstrates the power of the Thalmor. After all, who else could have ordered the Penitus Oculatus to have you released from your cell for this...very exquisite dinner?"

"I don't believe you," Crixus returned. "The Penitus Oculatus serve the Emperor. They would never serve the Thalmor."

"The Emperor is dead," Lady Arannelya stated. "You made sure of that, didn't you?"

Once more Crixus froze, just as he had in the halls of High Hrothgar when Elenwen said the same thing to him. How did the Thalmor know about that? No one outside of the Dark Brotherhood knew that he had done that deed. Eirik suspected, certainly, from what he had heard from eavesdropping and Serana's loose tongue. Crixus' mind was abuzz with images of Eirik, acting in the manner of another Ulfric Stormcloak, feeding information to the Thalmor agents secretly. It was incredulous and Eirik would have either laughed or punched Crixus in the face if he told it to him. But Crixus didn't want to admit that the Thalmor knew more than he wanted to believe. His mind worked hard to come up with some excuse, some other explanation for how they knew so much.

"I...I still don't believe you," Crixus stubbornly retorted.

"Very well," Lady Arannelya sighed, putting her goblet down on the table. "It certainly seems that we will never have this conversation again, although I would be supremely disappointed in you if you resigned yourself so soon to the fate Buteo has in store. Surely the Hero of the Battle of Llewynn Pass won't let something so trivial as an execution for high treason stop him. Should you prove me right, I must warn you: I may not be so generous next time, should we meet again." Very gracefully, she picked up a golden bell from the table and rang it. Crixus looked about the room and saw two Thalmor agents in black and gold approach his chair from behind.

"Your orders, milady?" they asked.

"Take this one back to his cell," she ordered, gesturing towards Crixus.

* * *

**(AN: It bothers me how anyone, not just my brother, can be comfortable with a judicial system where you're guilty until proven innocent! If you think the current judicial system of the US is bad, Marukh's version would be even worse! Abuse would be even greater, since all you need is motive, opportunity and no way of having the defendant prove their innocence and the hideous bastardization of "justice" which is espoused in college campuses and by tumblr-based "social justice warriors" prevails.)**

**(Strange thing happened: someone from tumblr actually paraphrased one of my author's note rants. This is strange because when i willingly post a link to my stories thereon, nobody reads them. Also my brother decided to do the different thing and read something i put on my blog about this story...and he lost it. Then again, i'm on the verge of losing it with you all filling up my inbox, demanding to know the story BEFORE it is revealed!)**


	39. The Butcher of Cheydinhal

**(AN: the Tribunal were NOT gods: the Tribunal were NEVER gods. And, from what i saw in _Morrowind_, Dagoth-Ur can be defeated by something as ridiculously stupid as the bridge in the Akullakhan chamber collapsing: he is not a god either. The dragons, however, are the children of an actual god [Akatosh], and the Japanese [-cough- i mean Akavir] ate them and drove them out of their land in fear. Also Gilvas Barelo stated that the "lost prophecy" meant that the Nerevarine would be born under the banner of the Empire. So yeah, Nerevarine is NOT Dragonborn and is most certainly dead [the one on the wall of Sky Haven Temple is the LAST Dragonborn].)**

**(Ah, House Hlaalu. Before i did my research, i believed they were just disgraced after Redoran, Telvanni and Dres decided to break from the Empire. But, upon more research, i have learned that House Hlaalu was cast out from the Great Houses altogether and replaced by House Sadras. House Hlaalu has decidedly lost their old power, Helseth is in exile and his title is meaningless, and the racist houses like Redoran, Telvanni, Indoril and Sadras are in control of what's left of Morrowind [Dres is also low on influence due to being enslaved by their former Argonian slaves]. The Argonian Invasion, my brother claims, was made to make the Dunmer more sympathetic [kind of like the most unlikely and impossible alliance ever, the Ebonheart Pact from _ESO_]: just like how, in _Morrowind_, the lore of the Nine was that they couldn't interact in human affairs or manifest themselves, to show that human gods were effectively not real and that ONLY the false, back-stabbing and deviant Dunmer "gods" were real.)**

**(As you can see, i'm pretty pissed off that kirkbride gave a general "fuck you!" to every race that wasn't a Dunmer in his mind-fuck ego-trip _C0da_.)**

* * *

**The Butcher of Cheydinhal**

That night Crixus remained huddled on the filthy floor of his cell, trembling and shaking for the cold. He tried desperately to forget what Lady Arannelya had told him. None of it was true, he told himself. The Thalmor couldn't be that powerful, they just couldn't! Over and over in his mind he went over the facts as he knew them, trying desperately to find some way to change them so that they fit his belief in the moral and ethical infallibility and general invincibility of the Empire. Such thoughts buzzed through his mind all that night until at last the darkness claimed him and he knew no more.

Crixus was rudely awakened and forced into the uncomfortably itchy burlap sack, placed over his head. Then he was dragged back out of the dungeons in pitch darkness. When the sack was removed, he found himself chained once again and standing not in the grand courtroom, but inside another building. One which he once believed he would never have the opportunity to see the inside thereof: the Elder Council chambers. Of all the places in the Imperial City, this one had changed the least over the centuries.

It was built of the same white marble the Ayleids used in the creation of the White-Gold Tower and other ruins of theirs across Cyrodiil. Great columns and pillars held up the domed ceiling. In the center was a great table made of marble, around which thirty seats were placed. Only eleven seats were filled. In fact, the only significant change that came over this hall, aside from the lack of seats filled, were the stained glass windows on the walls of the room: originally, they each bore nine circles, arranged in a phallic image with seven below in a straight line from the floor, two smaller circles at the end of these, with one larger circle crowning the top of the glass. Now there were only eight circles arranged in a vertical line upon each glass.

In olden times, the Elder Council was elected from those who the Emperor believed to be useful. During the years, as the power of the Elder Council waxed and waned, the Council's autonomy grew and shrank as well. In these latter days, the Elder Council had regained much of its former strength and influence: they could elect members as they wished and both Emperor Titus Mede II and General Tulius were subservient to the wishes of the Elder Council. During the Golden Age of Uriel Septim VII, each province was represented by three Council members, with the ruling triune consisting of the High Chancellor, the Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild and the Emperor's personal Battle-mage. At one point during Uriel's reign, Ocato of Firsthold, one of the three Council members of the Summerset Isles, held the position of both Councilor of Summerset Isles and Imperial Battle-mage before rising to the esteemed position of High Chancellor.

But no one these days outside of the Thalmor possessed the kind of power that Ocato had, not even his daughter Estalenya of Firsthold, who remained on the Elder Council as the Emperor's Battle-mage. Most of them were either wealthy or influential: few had any real power over the High Chancellor. These are the names of the eleven members of the Elder Council as they were serving before Crixus' trial: the triune, the ruling body of the Elder Council, Chancellor Lexerus Buteo, Imperial Battle-Mage Estalenya and Antilius Luco, a mage formerly trained under the College of Whispers who served as secretary for the Elder Council. The Councilors of Cyrodiil were Deprecian Orius, Ciprian Douar and Adrian Muco. The Councilors of High Rock were Pierre Gemain and Brandon Montrose: Amaund Motierre, who had once sat on the Elder Council, was missing since his voyage to Skyrim. There were no Nords placed as Councilors of Skyrim, only Imperials: among them were Honorius Ottus, descended from Alessia Ottus, Ignatius Caro, uncle of Countess Sibylla Caro of Leyawiin, and Procyon Imbrex, whose brother served Edvald of Bruma as chancellor.

"Servius Crixus," a very grumpy and annoyed Chancellor Buteo spoke. "Because of your repeated outbursts and appeals to the people, we have deemed to conclude your trial in secret. Your sentence will be carried out tomorrow, after we have had time to...re-educate the people of Cyrodiil on the lawlessness of your actions and the severity of your crime."

"Sentence?" Crixus asked. "But there hasn't been a trial yet! Are not punishments given after a trial, not before?"

"Clearly your time in the Mournhold prefecture," Chancellor Buteo continued. "Has made you forget the complexities of the Imperial judicial system!" The other council members murmured their agreement. Several were silent, and Honorius Ottus muttered: "Ignorant rabble, those dark elves." Others murmured their disapproval or began discoursing over the necessity of the Dunmer in the future of the Empire.

"Silence!" Chancellor Buteo called. All were once again silent as he turned back to Crixus. "According to the Alessian Doctrine, all are guilty until proven innocent. Therefore a sentence is arranged before the trial begins. If the defendant cannot adequately defend himself, he is sentenced. And seeing that you have been unable to defend yourself honorably and without mocking this proceeding..."

"You denied me my witnesses!" Crixus retorted. "You waived their invitations without my permission! You undermined my defense!"

"How dare you accuse this honored body!" shouted Buteo, rising up in wrath. "We are above contempt! We are the law!"

"All I wanted," Crixus spoke, seizing the opportunity. "Was to restore the knightly orders to defend the people of Cyrodiil, as they have in ages past. I would have made them swear loyalty to you had I known that I acted wrongfully. I am innocent of this charge!" Suddenly he was struck on the head from behind and sent doubling over.

"Ignorance of the law is no excuse!" angrily retorted Buteo. "The charge will stand. Since you are unable to provide a defense and stand in contempt of court, your guilt stands unchanged. Let it be known that Servius Crixus is accused and convicted of high treason, sedition and murder of an honored member of the House of Nobles. Tomorrow he will be dragged to the Medan Plaza, where he will be hanged, drawn and quartered, in accordance to the ultimate sanction of the Elder Council and Imperial law against the crime of high treason."

All the Elder Council members cheered and clamored their approval: all but two. At Chancellor Buteo's order, Crixus was shrouded by the sack and taken back to his cell, to spend the last of his hours in torment unspeakable for his treason.

* * *

Crixus' head was pulled out of the bucket of cold water by his neck, coughing and sputtering as he was brought back.

"You will answer the question rightly," the jailer stated. "Or we're gonna be here all fucking night, if we have to! How many?"

"Five fingers," Crixus defiantly answered.

His face was thrown back into the icy cold water, held down until he couldn't hold his breath any longer. For how many minutes they had been at this, he did not know. Time once again had no meaning in this darkened hall. Then, after a long period of time, the jailer dragged his head back out.

"The Elder Council's already found you guilty," he said. "You're not getting out of here alive. What are you still holding onto? Tell the truth!"

Crixus looked up at the torturer's hand, held often before his face during these proceedings. The lack of food and sleep, the quivering torch-light, and his own weariness from the long hours of torture caused his sight to blur. The index and middle fingers began to blur together.

"Fu...Fo..." Crixus breathed.

"What's that?" the jailer asked, thinking he heard 'four.'

"Fa...Five!" Crixus gasped at last. His will was broken and nothing else remained within him, save for the selfish desire to defy his tormentors to the very end: the victory of a weakling grasping inconsequentially at straws.

"That's enough," the torturer said. "Take this one back to his cell. He still needs enough energy to scream tomorrow as his bowels is cut out of his living belly and burned before his eyes."

Without mercy or consideration for the long hours of torture, Crixus was chained and dragged back into his cell and thrown into the filthy straw, after which the jailer locked the door behind him.

"I wish I had tomorrow off, though," his wide, smelly face leered at Crixus through the bars. "I'd have loved to see you meet your final end."

Crixus said nothing, having collapsed onto the floor, shivering and shaking all over. When sleep finally overcame him he knew not. All he remembered was waking up in his cell, exactly the same as he had left it. The door was still closed, but he could hear voices whispering to him.

_You've abandoned us, betrayed our memory..._

_You were a useless foe, a disgrace to your family name..._

_You have squandered your gift because of your arrogance..._

_...that's because the Divines are not real..._

_You'll never live to see our victory. This place will be your grave..._

_Make your choice soon, before time runs out..._

_What does it mean that you and I are related..._

_Get down here, so I can send you to Oblivion..._

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone in his cell. A faint reddish glow appeared from the darkest part of his cell. Slowly and gracefully, like a lich, there floated the visage he had been dreading ever since he heard the words of the lost sanctuary in his dreams. As before, the arms were stretched out in gesture of welcome and acceptance.

"_My child,_" the soft, rasping voice of the Night Mother called. "_You still cling futilely to the day. But the darkness is patient. It will wait until you are ready, then it will claim you._"

"No..." breathed Crixus, struggling to move from the floor.

"_Hear now the words of Sithis, Listener,_" she spoke. "_There is one of the old fold, one who turned his back on me during the dark times, the same as you have done. Fools, the both of you! There is no escaping the Dark Brotherhood. In life and in death you serve Sithis, that is the way of things. He has heard the call of darkness and seeks you out. Tell him the old lady's voice speaks still to him: he will understand._"

Crixus heard heavy footfalls echoing from further down the hallway. It was not the firm tramp of the guards, or the shuffling of the jailer and torturer: these were heavy footfalls of some very large creature. The light of a torch could be seen flickering on the walls outside the cell, casting a large shadow upon the floor. An old Orc appeared, walking down the hallway of the dungeon. He was clad only in a cloak about his shoulders and his face gleamed white with ghastly war-paint. His beard was short, grizzled and gray and his hair was tied back in a tight topknot, leaving the rest of his head bare. Physically he was built just like Gorak, and it seemed that age had blessed him with a strong physique even into his advanced years. The Orc suddenly stopped and turned to look into Crixus' cell.

"So," grumbled the Orc. "This is the one who claims to speak for the Dark Brotherhood."

"Who are you?" Crixus asked.

"My name is Garnag gro-Uzgurn," said the Orc. "And I will be the last thing you see before you meet the Dread Father, liar!"

"Liar?" Crixus asked, his mind wondering where he had heard the name 'Garnag' before. "What? What are you saying?"

"The Dark Brotherhood is dead," Garnag replied. "You dishonor the name by stealing it for your own purposes. Now I will end you and bring honor to Sithis."

"How are you going to do that?" Crixus asked. "I'm in here..."

"And I have the keys," Garnag stated, holding up with his other hand a ring of jingling keys. "The jailer could not be convinced, so I ripped his head off. There will be nothing to disturb us, false one." He placed the key into the lock and, with a scowl, wrenched the door open when it was unlocked. Crixus struggled to his feet, realizing just how tall the old Orc really was: easily as tall as Gorak or Torgrim. To his fear, the Orc closed the door behind him with the key still in the lock, then locked the door and turned back to Crixus.

"There," he grinned menacingly. "It's just you and me, false one."

"Wait a minute!" Crixus interjected, grasping at straws to keep himself alive. Now that the keys were within his grasp, perhaps he could convince this Orc to let him live. Escape suddenly seemed possible. "How do you know?"

"Know what?" the Orc asked.

"That I'm, well, what you think I am?" asked Crixus. "I've never met you before."

"I found your little friend Titus the petty-murderer," Garnag replied. "He told me everything he knew about you, the rest I found from interrogating Oculati. Even the hardened ones break under the right circumstances."

"But what if I'm the real thing?" asked Crixus. "I-I mean, I was inducted into the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim. I had visions, the-the Night Mother spoke to me, I was proclaimed the Listener..."

Garnag threw back his head and laughed. "Do you think this will save you, little man?" He took a step closer to Crixus. "There have been others who claimed to be the Listener, who have not heard the words of the Night Mother. They are all dead now, as you will soon be!"

"Th-The old woman!" Crixus spoke. His words about the Night Mother brought back what he had heard mere moments ago. "She speaks to you still."

At this, Garnag halted. "What did you say to me?"

"'The old lady's voice speaks still to you,'" repeated Crixus. "That's what..."

"Alisanne," grumbled the Orc. He then looked up at Crixus. "How could you know that, unless..." His small, dark eyes suddenly lit up in realization. "...by Sithis, you _are_ the Listener!"

"Yes, that's what I said!" Crixus returned.

To his surprise, the large Orc suddenly knelt down before him, tossing the torch aside onto the floor, and bowing his head before Crixus.

"Forgive me for ever doubting!" he spoke, his voice quivering with fear. "I see now that it is as Pontius and the jester said: the Night Mother will choose in her own good time. If only I had been more patient, but it is not in the nature of my people to be patient."

"Get up," Crixus replied. "I'm no priest or primate."

"But you are the voice of Sithis!" gasped the Orc. "Chosen by the Night Mother to speak for the Dark Brotherhood. What happened? There had been no word from the Skyrim Sanctuary, we feared it was lost as well."

"It is lost," Crixus replied. "But there is another Sanctuary that has been established on the shores of the Pale, near Dawnstar. We remain there."

"Who else is there?" asked Garnag.

"The Night Mother's corpse," Crixus stated. "Uh...four others, I think: Babbette, Nazir, Serana and Cicero..."

"Cicero!" exclaimed the Orc. "By Sithis, that mad little man-child is still alive? Is he still Keeper? Has he heard the words from you?"

"Yes and yes," Crixus replied. "He was more than satisfied that I am, in fact, the Listener."

The Orc laughed, then seized Crixus in his arms, picking him up off the ground and placing him back onto the filthy floor. "This is good news! The best I have heard in over ten years! I must go there at once and submit myself once more to the will of Sithis!"

"Wait, Garnag!" Crixus called out. "Don't leave yet. I've been thrown in here despite my best efforts, and, well, since I am the Listener..."

"Of course, come with me!" said Garnag. "I will lead you out of this place."

Crixus was up on his feet and following after the large Orc as fast as he could, which was not very much considering what had become of him. After a while, the Orc stopped, went back for Crixus and, taking him by the hand, led him through the winding halls of the dungeon.

"So, what's your story?" Crixus asked. "When did you join the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Many years ago," the Orc began. "I was living in Orsimer, a proud, young chieftain in my own right, leading raids against the Crowns and Forebears in Hammerfell. Then one day my raiding party was broken and we were killed or captured: I was given the indecency of being captured by a Colovian noble and pressed into the service of a bodyguard for a wealthy family in Cyrodiil. Hated the lot of them, but especially the matron of the house. One day she was angry at me, for some reason I can't remember: everything used to piss that little old b*tch off. So I bashed her skull against the wall and was sent to prison for murder: my only regret was that I hadn't killed her sooner. Maybe then I wouldn't have her annoying voice always berating me for an eternal memory. I was then taken to Cheydinhal and inducted into the Dark Brotherhood."

"When was this?" asked Crixus. "Was it after the War or before?"

"Before," Garnag stated. "Long before."

"What happened then?" asked Crixus.

"I watched," Garnag grimly answered. "As, one by one, we were being hunted down. Wayrest fell to an army of pirates and the Sanctuary was destroyed: no survivors. One by one the other sanctuaries were closed down or, like with Skyrim, no news came from them and we believed them to be lost. Then..." He sighed.

"What?" asked Crixus.

"Bravil," grumbled Garnag. "I still remember that damned incident." He paused, then turned around to face Crixus. With one hand he removed his cloak and with the other he held the torch up, allowing its light to shine on his large, muscular body. There were many scars upon it, and a wrinkled part of his face that appeared as though it had been held into fire.

"Those damn cats and their skooma!" he scowled. "No one cared about their trade until the many dealers took their disagreements to blows. Looting, pillaging, burning, raping, murders in broad daylight, and none of it in the name of Sithis! I was sent into the thick of it to defend the crypt of the Night Mother. When those thugs finally found it, they thought they had come upon a secret stash of one of their competitors. Upon seeing us and our sell-swords, armed to the teeth to defend the crypt, they were convinced and nothing we could do or say would dissuade them." He covered himself with his cloak, then turned around, leading Crixus on the rest of the way.

"I will say nothing more about that day, save for this:" he muttered. "I alone managed to escape, running into the thick of the fire to rescue the corpse of the Night Mother in her stony bed. Before I left, I saw the Listener, struggling to escape as the crypt was burned down by the thugs. When they saw we had no skooma, they believed it had been secreted out, so they had their spell-swords burn it down out of spite. The last thing she said to me was that the old lady's voice still speaks to me. Those were the first words she told me, straight from the mouth of the Night Mother, and I knew that I had been chosen."

"I'm sorry," Crixus replied.

"Spare me your pity," grumbled Garnag. "I've lived these eleven years without it, I need it not."

"So what happened afterwards?" asked Crixus.

"I watched," repeated Garnag. "As, one by one, we vanished. Contracts went awry. Dissention grew as one of our number claimed to be the Listener, but was not. All that remained of the Dark Brotherhood was an old Orc and a little man-child in a jester's suit, always laughing at everything. One day I went out for food and just...kept going. Sithis had abandoned us, I believed. The Night Mother, which I had risked my life to preserve, had forsaken us. But..." He sighed. "...I realized that the need to kill was still there. Everywhere I went, I could see the old lady's face and hear her voice, still jeering, still taunting. I learned that I could silence the voice, if only for a minute, by killing those who crossed my path. I began to see her face everywhere, until I had made a name for myself."

"Wait a minute," Crixus muttered. "Cheydinhal? You're the butcher of Cheydinhal?"

"Yes," nodded Garnag. "And so I have lived these eleven years, profiting from the chaos stirred up in Cheydinhal by Countess Dreyla Sarys."

"Right," said Crixus. "Now you're all eager to join the Dark Brotherhood again...after walking out on them?" Garnag halted. "And don't even try to deny it: I heard it with your own mouth."

"I deny nothing," Garnag replied. "We were all but dead, and...I despaired. If the Night Mother has indeed spoken again, then I must return to her service. This is what we have all been waiting for: the years of ill-fortune are finally turning around, all because of you!"

"Just what are you, anyway?" gasped Crixus. "You seem to slide back and forth, one minute aggressive and secretive, the next practically giddy with joy at the thought of serving the Dark Brotherhood again."

"I'm the worst nightmare of every damn dirty dark elf in Cheydinhal," grumbled Garnag. "And anyone else who comes across my path. But, in all those long, dark years, I longed to see again the days when we killed relentlessly and mercilessly in the name of Sithis!"

"That's as good an answer as any, I suppose," Crixus replied. "Now, then, what's the plan on getting out of here? I assume you have one?"

"I climbed over the wall of the Bastion as it became dark," Garnag stated. "I have enough rope to get us back out."

"That won't be an option," a voice suddenly spoke.

Garnag and Crixus came to a halt. Before them the light of another torch could be seen coming down the stairs of the dungeon. In the dim glow he saw that one was an Altmer and clearly taller than the other, who seemed half bent over. Garnag, Crixus soon realized, had no weapon as he raised his fists to defend them from the newcomers.

"Tell your city-Orc to put its arms down, Crixus," the elf said. "If we had wanted to recapture or kill you, it would have been done."

"What did you call me, goldy?" Garnag retorted.

"You heard me, pariah," sneered the elf. "Now, then, Crixus, shall we leave or do you wish to have us torn apart by your servant?"

"Not so fast," Crixus spoke. "This is a nice turn of events, being rescued only to have my accusers appear before me." As he held them in his gaze, in what little light there was, he could see their faces and remembered who they were. "But now I wish to know who you are and why you're here."

"Why we're here will have to wait," the elf said. "This dungeon is certainly not the proper place for such discussion. We are not out of danger yet, after all. As for who we are, I am Estalenya, the Imperial Battle-mage, and this little, shriveled man next to me is Antilius Luco, former secretary of the Elder Council." Antilius was not shriveled, though he did walk bent over in a stoop: he was old, though not as old as Estalenya, who had seen half of the Fourth Era as it was in her time and was still not considered 'old' among her people.

"Put this on, Crixus," Antilius said to Crixus, holding out to him a worn gray cloak. "Master Orc, we hadn't expected your arrival."

Garnag grumbled. "I have a cloak of my own."

"Once you two are both cloaked and hooded," Estalenya replied. "Follow us. Say nothing to anyone, no matter how they demand. Let us do all the talking."

"Why should we trust you?" both Crixus and Garnag asked at the same time.

"Because you haven't got a choice, have you?" Estalenya returned. "If you'd like, we can always send you back to your cell, or tell the guards that you've escaped and murdered the jailer..."

"Alright, I understand," Crixus replied, pulling the hood down over his head. "Lead on."

They went up through the Imperial Bastion by the main path. Apparently Estalenya and Antilius had arrived there-at and had gone down alone into the dungeons, for the guards did not rise to stop them. Even with the large Orc in tow, they managed to get to the yard-gate without any incident. Crixus' heart was pounding furiously as the rush of fear and anticipation filled him. One wrong move and they might be discovered. Yet each fearful step towards the exit of the Imperial Bastion brought no discovery. At last they came out of the Bastion's main gate, where they turned left at Estalenya's discretion. There waiting for them was a carriage, of similar fashion to that which Crixus had provisioned for Eirik and Mjoll during the insurrection in Skyrim, only much grander. Their hosts ushered them inside, then whispered instructions to the driver and climbed in themselves. The doors were closed and the carriage took off with a jolt.

"The Shield Quarter is a dangerous place," Estalenya stated. "Even for two powerful mages."

"Where are we going?" asked Crixus.

"Out of the city," Estalenya replied. "Obviously. Where to then is your choice."

"What do you mean?" inquired Crixus.

"Tell him," Estalenya said to her companion.

"As you may have noticed, Crixus," Antilius replied. "We were there at your trial. You may not have noticed Lady Estalenya, as she kept to the rear wings of the Council and, like them, has pale hair. But we were both there, and we heard what you said in your defense...and how the High Chancellor disregarded you."

"You saw that, huh?" asked Crixus.

"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Antilius. "At the very least, he should have brought forth your witnesses to give you a chance of proving your innocence. This and your words made us decide to act against the High Chancellor and to have you released."

"So I'm free?" asked Crixus again.

"Unofficially, yes," Antilius nodded. "This obviously did not come from the High Chancellor. If he discovered, we would all be dead."

"Even you two?" asked Crixus.

"Even us," Estalenya interjected. "The amount of power the High Chancellor has been garnering for himself of late is staggering. The weak and the opportunistic both gravitate towards him, eager to be safe or to advance themselves by his success. There are others, of course: stronger ones, biding their time for Buteo to show weakness. Defeating them will not be easy."

"Defeating them?" asked Crixus.

"With the Penitus Oculatus at his command," Antilius continued. "Lexerus Buteo is untouchable. If they were not an issue, deposing him would be much easier."

"Deposing the High Chancellor?" Crixus whispered.

"Yes," Estalenya replied. "Antilius and I have discussed this a long time before your capture and we believe that the Elder Council is due for a change of leadership. It would only be a temporary solution, mind you. Filling the vacuum of power that will be left by Buteo's absence will not be an easy task. He is wise enough not to be heavily centralized in his dealings: he has many agents and supporters who will operate of their own if he is removed. The ambitious ones also will be watching for his downfall, ready to capitalize on the instability. That is why you will need our help."

"Your help?"

"We don't mean to destroy the Elder Council," Antilius replied. "Only to change its governing head. The others will remain, and Lady Estalenya and myself will insure that a peaceful transition is carried out."

"And what do you need me for, then?" asked Crixus.

"If it is true, what you were charged with," Estalenya replied. "Of forming knightly orders, then you have the independent force capable of removing Buteo from power."

"I'm surprised," Crixus said. "That there are so many who are willing to stand up to the High Chancellor."

"Not enough," said Estalenya in reply. "If there were, he would not have grown so powerful."

"As the situation stands now," Antilius stated. "All three of us..." He cast a wary glance at Garnag. "Well, four of us, are now outlaws. We can never return to the Imperial City, unless it is to depose Chancellor Buteo. We had intended on merely leaving the city, but if there is somewhere else you'd prefer to go..."

"Yes," Crixus muttered, hoping against hope that the others were not dead. "Chorrol."

* * *

**(AN: Kind of threw you all for a curve ball there with new characters being introduced. I'm sure someone's going to complain about "wah, why doesn't Crixus use the Voice?" Well, as i've clearly stated throughout the series, Crixus sees the Voice as a crutch and refuses to use it.)  
**

**(There seem to be some confusion regarding huscarls in my story [due to the MASSIVE amounts of messages in my PM inbox demanding i give ALL the details of the story before i write them], so i'm just going to answer them here. Lydia was never officially a member of the Sons of Skyrim, she only served as Eirik's servant [in real life, huskarls were freemen, yet in the game they're appointed by the jarls as if they had no choice in the matter]. As far as leaving one's service, i haven't seen anything in the sagas regarding that. It will definitely be brought up in two places: one, of course, will be a future chapter of this story, and the other will be a one-shot about when Eirik and Lydia first met. I have no more details on any of these, nor when i'll be able to get the next chapter for this story out, as i am ridiculously busy all day every day of every week.)  
**


	40. Betrayal

**(AN: summer is not happy fun time for me: it is busy, always busy. For the sake of privacy, i won't divulge all the details. But just know that i will get things published on this story, and hopefully others, in good time: and filling up my inbox is NOT going to speed things up in the least!)**

**(On an off-note, you probably noticed something familiar in the last chapter, if any of you have watched _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ [probably fewer than those of you who have watched _Game of Thrones_]. The whole "five fingers" thing came from the episode "Chain of Command", where the Cardassians tried to make Captain Picard believe he saw five lights instead of four. I get the idea, though: Picard is the humanist hero who only believes in science and the empirical world [his first and last villain is Q, who is literally a god], so obviously the worst torture that the Kardashians can inflict on him [pun intentional] is to make him believe what is not there. Apparently this is SO profound [much torture, so profound, very thought-provoking], but it's lost on Crixus, who regularly convinces himself to believe what is not real [in the words of the Fourth Doctor - another humanist hero like Picard - he alters the facts to fit his view, rather than his view to fit the facts]. I don't know, what do you think?)  
**

**(Some things that i've been building up lately are really going to pay off in this chapter.)**

* * *

**Betrayal**

The little carriage left the Imperial City and came to rest in the small town of Weye on the western shores of Lake Rumare. As far as they told Crixus, they could arrive in Chorrol in only three days time; swifter than a lone rider trotting along the main road. Nevertheless, the horses had to rest and eat in Weye, as had they all. The two Elder Council members seemed to take pity on Crixus' lamentable condition after the many nights of torture and darkness. While they were there, they gave him food, water and salves and potions to cure him of the hurts he had gotten while under the torment of the Imperial Bastion.

"I'm afraid," Antilius said. "That torture has become rather commonplace in the Empire these days."

Of the twain, he was the most decent to Crixus. Garnag said nothing more, especially in the presence of these two. Their arrival made him exceptionally quiet and all the former Elder Council members got out of him were noncommittal grunts and angry glares. When they asked Crixus about him, all he would say was that Garnag was his bodyguard who had followed his arrest to the Imperial City and had gotten ahead of them in terms of rescuing him from the Bastion. Estalenya was, like most Altmer, aloof and proud of herself: but she was not as secretive as some of the others Crixus had met and answered his questions. She told him who they were: she was the daughter of Ocato of Firsthold, who had been High Chancellor over rule the Elder Council after the death of Martin Septim, and served as Titus Mede's Imperial battle-mage, and Antilius was the Elder Council's secretary. While Crixus could certainly buy her story, he guessed that there was more to Antilius Luco than he put on. For one thing, while Estalenya carried a sword on her person - a rarity among the Elder Council, but commonplace for battle-mages - Antilius carried a short staff: another rarity for members of the Elder Council, since Crixus was of the belief that most mages belonged either to the Synod or the College of Whispers.

While they were there at Weye, Crixus also received a reckoning of the days. They arrived there early on the morning of the eighth day of Sun's Dusk and would leave that night, with the goal of reaching Chorrol by either the tenth or the eleventh. From this, Crixus tried to guess how long ago it was since he was captured by the Penitus Oculatus. He knew that he had returned to Chorrol after killing Nahfahlaar on the twenty-third of Frostfall, with at least a day or two passing before they were on the road and confronted. From there, a span of eleven days must have followed to bring him to this point, though he would have sworn that they were longer.

That night they saddled up the horses and brought in the supplies which had been purchased: fur cloaks, food, water and a set of plain clothes to replace Crixus' prison rags. Then, with everything mounted to the top of the carriage, they departed Weye, leaving without fear or suspicion. They rode all that night and most of the next day, stopping only briefly for a rest before carrying on again. They made another camp that night, bundled in the cold, drafty carriage as best they could. Despite the chill of late autumn, neither Garnag nor Estalenya wanted to huddle together for warmth. Unlike the practical Nords of Skyrim, the high society of Cyrodiil and the Summerset Isles would have chosen death over huddling up to someone with whom they were not intimate. When they awoke, stiff, sore and cold, Crixus made a mental note to insist that they make camp the next night they stopped.

The next morning was much of the same, passing through the golden-brown northern marches of the Great Forest and over the rolling hills on their way to Chorrol. As they had rested that night, they did not pause again until it was almost evening. At this, Crixus broke the silence of their long journey.

"Let's set up camp outside of this carriage, if you don't mind," he said. "We're almost there, and I don't think any of us will survive without real warmth."

"I agree," Antilius stated. Garnag only grunted.

"No," Estalenya shook her head. "No, we are not yet out of danger. The animists lie in wait in every wood, and, if I am not mistaken, there are bandits in Fort Ash, which we passed but a few hours ago. It will be dangerous, especially with a fire."

"We have Garnag," Crixus stated. "And you two aren't exactly helpless either. And I have a few tricks up my sleeves." This was, of course, rather generous on his part: all of his knives and daggers, the Bow and Blade of the Nightingales, his quiver of arrows and any other weapons he had were confiscated by the Penitus Oculatus, as well as his letters from Severus Maro, the Shadowmere Amulet, his traveling clothes and Uncle Surius' ring. Dressed in the clothes of a commoner and the newly-purchased fur cloak, Crixus certainly did not seem as threatening as he once appeared.

"Very well," Estalenya sighed. "I will have the carriage drivers keep watch over the horses while we rest. But I am convinced that this is a bad idea."

Despite her conviction, Lady Estalenya did not refuse coming out to warm herself by the fire as the shadows began to grow longer. Crixus had no trouble starting the fire, for he had Antilius Luco with him, who cast a fire spell on a pile of sticks which Crixus had found and soon they were warming up to a nice, cozy fire. Since he was the only one who spoke to him, Crixus asked Antilius about his gear.

"I had several things with me when I was captured," he said. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you brought them along with you."

"I'm sorry, Crixus," the older man replied. "We had to act secretly, arranging this little getaway and securing as much money as we could. We did not leave the Capital empty-handed, but we took nothing from the Penitus Oculatus headquarters in the Imperial Palace. That would have aroused too much suspicion."

"I suppose so," Crixus sighed. "I'll just have to make due with what I can find, as usual. A pity, too. You know, that gear was the best I had since my time as prefect in Mournhold. Oh, and how I missed that gear! I wore pauldrons and gauntlets made of the clay-red chitin common in the armories of Morrowind. This all with my Legion uniform, you understand. Not Red Legion regulations, but, being the head of the last Imperial hold in Morrowind, I could dictate whatever I wanted. Not a bad setup, really. I miss doing that...only a little."

"Yes, I have heard about your exploits, Crixus," said Antilius. "They were brought up during the Council's private deliberations while you were in prison. The High Chancellor used your...past exploits in the 9th Legion as proof that you had acted treacherously in your own interest before, so that your current actions were nothing new."

"My current actions," Crixus sneered. "As for what I did back then, you have no right to judge me. I did what I had to do to save the 9th Legion. I sure as hell didn't kill General Claxitus."

"As you wish," Antilius replied. "I was not on the Elder Council during the Great War, therefore I have no knowledge of your deeds."

"There is one thing I can't discern, though," said Crixus. "How did the High Chancellor know about the knightly orders? I never made it public knowledge. The only people I told were my companions."

"Earlier last month," Antilius began. "The High Chancellor sent out the Penitus Oculatus to Skingrad, on a private source that someone was planning insurrection against the Elder Council. We were told this during the Council's deliberations on your case. According to the Chancellor's report, several men who were your companions were questioned regarding these allegations. The Chancellor gave no names, but he did tell us that one of them had told the Oculatus about your little group of hedge knights."

Crixus gazed into the fire, anger burning in his heart. After all he had done for them, one of them had gone beyond merely b*tching to his face and had actually betrayed him. He hoped now that they would all be alive when he returned to Chorrol: one of them was going to pay dearly for all that he had gone through, and the rest had to know that he would not be their fool.

"Most of the others agreed with him on the verdict," he stated. "Estalenya and I, we were still in doubt. Violence and torture are not beneath the Penitus Oculatus, and a man may confess to anything under enough torture."

Crixus said nothing, but his body flinched as Antilius spoke of these matters. He realized just how close he had come to denying his own senses, to believing a lie. Nay, he had actually come to convince himself that there were less than five fingers. It was easy after a while: he had come to convince himself of many false things in spite of the abundance of evidence to the contrary over his long lifespan. After being exiled and almost charged with treason for his part in the 9th Legion, he convinced himself that no one was at fault rather than the Empire: both were his family to him, and with the death of Valerius Crixus, if he forsook the Empire, he would have nothing. There were many in Skyrim who swallowed their pride before his taunts and insults, and others who restrained themselves from doing worse things than merely punching him in the face, yet he convinced himself that they were all brutish, savage barbarians. And many times since his return to Cyrodiil, the Aedra had made themselves known to him, in physical manifestations just as how Boderic had foretold: yet in spite of the mountains of evidence for the existence and caring interest of the Divines in mortal affairs - more than just his own - rather than alter his view of their nonexistence to meet the facts of their existence, he chose to ignore the evidence of his sight, alter the facts to fit his view, and refuse to believe that the supernatural beings who he was encountering regularly were in fact the Nine Divines manifest in person.

After a lengthy silence, Crixus finally spoke. "I'll stand watch."

"No," Antilius replied. "Estalenya and I will watch. You sleep, my friend. You are weary of the journey...and, well, other things. Rest now, and regain your strength. We will speak again on this matter tomorrow, if we have the chance, or later if we do not."

They argued back and forth over who would take first watch, but Antilius won in the end. Crixus wrapped himself in his cloak, laid down by the fire, and watched the flames dance in gold and auburn hues before him until his eyes became heavy and he fell asleep.

* * *

His dreams were the same as before: visions of a tower, of the voice of the Grey Spirit, of the Night Mother, of Miraak, of Sedris, and others taunting him, reminding him of his duties and his failures. During this, another image appeared: a new image, one which he had never seen before in his dreams. He thought he saw himself upon the sea, calm and still as a mirror, under a bright morning sun. He was on a carrack, gazing outward off the port-side of the bow. Before him lay a great mist, so thick that the light of day could not penetrate it. Towards that mist the ship was slowly traveling, and a strange mixture of wonder and trepidation fell upon him. He wanted to know what lay beyond the mist, but knowing was just as dangerous as not knowing.

As soon as the bow dove into the mist, all became dark. The ship itself disappeared as well, and Crixus found himself in a dark place with no light. Then a light appeared and he seemed to be back in General Claxitus' tent, under a warm Hammerfell evening. As he was was thus standing there, a man wrapped in a heavy fur cloak walked into the tent, removed his steel winged helmet and placed it on the table in the center of the tent. He unwrapped his cloak but did not remove it. Crixus saw that he was clad in a hauberk of steel rings and had a sword on his belt. His neck was wrapped in a thick scarf, out of which hung a golden amulet with a large ruby in the center and eight smaller gems around it. As for his face, he had thin, long white hair down to his chin, a white beard that flowed over the scarf, and his eyes were blue.

"A long winter is on the way," he said to Crixus. "We must do our part to prepare for it."

"Who..." Crixus spoke. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am, Servius," the old man replied.

"How do you know my name?" asked Crixus. "And why are you calling me that anyway? I don't let anyone use my first name except..."

"Except for family?" concluded the old man. "Well, Servius, we are family. As for my name, that you know already. You have at least seen my face everywhere: on every Imperial coin that has passed through your hands, or on the statues in Skyrim."

"Give me a fucking break," Crixus scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You can't be here."

"And yet I am," the old man replied with a wiry grin.

"You're not a god!" Crixus retorted. "Fuck, I'd be willing to believe the other eight were gods, if I were as dumb as everyone else, but you? You don't deserve to be a god!"

"Who does deserve to be a god, then?" asked the old man.

"Martin Septim!" Crixus stated. "He at least did something selfless, not like you!"

"Martin was a good man," said the old man. "And no one can take that away from him. But as for my life..." He paused, one hand reaching up to his neck. "That is a very old story. Do you think you have the time now?"

"Why not?" Crixus returned. "Humor me, Breton!"

The old man scowled, but continued just the same. "I am a Nord, of the free folk of Atmora, the last people who refused to leave in the face of the oncoming eternal winter of the ultimate north. I was sent south to survive the cold, and though I grew to manhood in High Rock, I am no less a Nord than Llevas Dorvayn was a dark elf, though born and raised in Cheydinhal in Cyrodiil."

"Bull-shite," Crixus retorted. "I've read the truth. You're not from fucking Atmora! And no, you were born in High Rock, that makes you a Breton, not a Nord! Those white scum don't deserve to claim you as your own, since you belong to them as much as Skyrim does, which they stole from the elves!"

"The truth?" asked the old man. "Whose truth is that, then? The truth of Zurin Arctus? He was a liar and power-hungry from the beginning, and only centuries living a half-life made him despair of immortality. The truth of Vivec? There was no truth in him, even when he told Llevas that he did not kill him in his first incarnation, back when he was called Indoril Nerevar. Do you wish to know the truth, Servius? The truth of the gods?"

"Enlighten me, oh great one!" sneered Crixus.

"It is not wise to be insolent to a god," said the old man. "Would you indeed mock the ones who hold your very life in the palm of their hands?"

"Yes," Crixus replied. "Because they don't exist. You don't exist, you're just a figment of my dreams! An imagination."

"To the gods, Servius," the old man replied. "All mortals were once just a figment of their imaginations. Yet we never stopped believing in you. Please, sit. We will be here for a while, we must talk." Both Crixus and the old man sat down. Then the old man began to speak again.

"The truth is, Crixus," quoth the old man. "That you have begun on the very path which Zurin Arctus claimed was mine. As my blood descendant, you will make his lies truth by your actions. You will become the monster which he said that I was."

"Wrong!" Crixus shouted. "I am _nothing_ like you, and I will _never_ be!"

"Oh, but you are," said the old man. "What was that the priests and primates say of me? 'Be strong for war. Be bold against enemies and evil, and defend the people of Tamriel.'" He smiled at Crixus. "Your life has been marked by your boldness and eagerness for war. It was you who joined the Red Legions first, not your brother, and you served well. You once defended the people of Tamriel, but now, now that mankind has forsaken me, they have come to follow: _you_ have come to folly."

"And what, you're here to correct me?" Crixus sneered. He leaned in until his nose was almost touching the old man's nose. "I don't need correcting, especially from some imaginary sky Nord! You and all the other so called gods can show yourselves to me all you want, but it doesn't mean shite! I don't have to believe what you are, I don't have to believe anything except what _I_ want to believe. Because _I_ am the master of my own fate, _I_ am the one who conquered death, _I_ am the one who will wipe you and your misbegotten white race from the face of Nirn! _I_ will do it by _my_ own hand, _my_ own power! Me! Nobody else, do you fucking understand? No one!" He rose up to his feet, as if he could make himself appear larger than the old man by merely standing up.

"Because _I_ am god, not you!" Crixus retorted.

The old man rose up to his full height: even in his old age, he towered over Crixus as much as Eirik did. But suddenly Crixus felt his legs turn to steel and he fell back onto the ground. Now he was lying on his back, unable to raise himself, and the old man stood there, a grim look on his face, towering over the little arrogant human.

"You disappoint me, Crixus," he said. "Do what you will, then, for freedom of will has always been the gift of gods to mortals. But know that your free will has consequences: the blood of every innocent Nord you have slain will be on your hands, and vengeance will be your lot."

"You fucking barbarian!" Crixus shouted, as he lay groveling on his back upon the ground. "All you do is shout me down if I refuse to believe in you! You're not worthy of _my_ worship if this is how you act!"

"Believe what you will," said the old man. "But we will never forsake you. Arise now! They seek to kill you once again! Awake!"

Suddenly he heard someone's voice raised in alarm. His eyes snapped open and, in the light of the fire, he saw a figure leaning over him with a knife in their hand and something shimmering in the other. There was a flash and a burst of heat and someone came flailing onto the ground near him, robes caught on fire.

"What the fuck?" were the first words out of Crixus' mouth as he rose up, his body fidgeting from the rush of energy from the late attack.

A large roar was heard, then Garnag came hurdling down, pinning the assassin to the ground with one hand around his neck and another holding both of his hands together behind his back. Antilius and Estalenya both approached: the older man had a ball of candlelight hovering at the top of his short staff and Estalenya's blade was drawn, glistening with fiery enchantments she had cast upon it during the fight.

"Don't kill him, Orc!" Antilius spoke up. "Don't kill him. He may be useful."

"I have a few questions I'd like to ask him," Crixus said, walking over to the assassin. In the light of Antilius' staff, he saw that this was not a Morag Tong assassin, but a mage. To his surprise, and to Antilius' disgust, his robes were blue and fringed with gold: a Synod mage.

"Who sent you?" Crixus shouted.

"Oblivion take you, meddling fool!" the mage replied through Garnag's tight vice.

"Why does the Synod want me dead?" Crixus demanded.

"Ignorant peasants should know better," the mage stated. "Than to poke their nose into things too high for their tiny minds."

"Fuck you, I'm not a Nord!" Crixus shouted. "And we're hardly peasants here."

"Indeed?" sneered the mage. "I see that weasel standing beside you." Crixus saw that he was looking at Antilius. "A spy for the College of Whispers, or _I'm_ a Nord!"

"Answer the questions," demanded Crixus. "Who sent you?"

"You guessed from my robes, at least," the mage retorted. "Are you really so dense that you need _more_ than that to guess who sent me?"

"Give me a name, you pompous arse!" Crixus retorted.

"Oblivion take you," the mage gasped.

"Garnag, break his neck," Crixus threatened.

"Do you think that will scare me?" gasped the mage as Garnag's grip tightened. "I'm...dead for my failure..."

"You'll surely die, one way or another," Estalenya finally interjected. "Crixus, tell your orc to cease!" Crixus told Garnag to stop, as Estalenya approached the mage. "We both know about your...connections. If we let you go, you'll tell him about us. Obviously, we'll have to kill you. And if you're dead for your failure, then there's no reason to keep any secrets."

"P-Please..." gasped the mage.

"Please what?" Estalenya replied. "I might as well start making peace with the Eight if I were you. Your time is fast running out. So either talk or keep your secrets to the grave. If you talk, we'll give you a quick death. If not..." She grinned, then looked at the Orc. "...it could be _very_ slow and _very _painful."

By now, the mage was quivering. The Orc's grip on his throat was making breathing difficult, and as a result he could not concentrate enough to cast a spell to save his life. Now he was faced with death on all accounts, and fear was taking over him.

"A-Alright, I'll talk! I'll talk!" he begged. "Just don't make me suffer!"

"Who sent you?" Crixus asked.

"I didn't hear a name," he replied. "I was passed a note in secret from higher up. Someone wanted you dead."

"What did the note say?" asked Estalenya.

"'Use scrying orb,'" he read. "'Find Servius Crixus. Kill him. M.S. will pay your reward.' That's all, nothing else. I even had it examined for hidden messages: there was nothing else!"

"Who is M.S.?" asked Crixus.

"I don't know, someone's initials?" begged the mage. "Look, I told you everything I know, I swear to the Eight..."

"Fuck the Eight!" Crixus shouted. "I am death incarnate, if there's anyone you should be begging to, it's me, you little shite!" He then turned to Garnag and made a slashing motion across his throat. One last cry and then a loud cracking sound, then the mage was lying dead in Garnag's arms.

"What was that for?" Estalenya asked.

"I don't believe in the Eight," Crixus added.

"Don't tell me you're another deedra worshiper," she replied.

"It's 'daedra', actually," Antilius interjected.

"At least they're real," Crixus stated.

"Who would even _want_ to worship the daedra?" asked Antilius.

"Who cares about your opinion anyway?" asked Crixus. "Besides, the way I see it, you have a lot of explaining to do."

"I think _you_ do, Crixus," Estalenya stated. "You never told us that you were wanted by the Synod."

"Fuck you!" Crixus retorted.

Estalenya scoffed. "Fuck _me_? I don't think you know who you're talking to. I am the Imperial Battle-mage, daughter of Ocato of Firsthold! I deserve your respect, peasant!"

"Ex-Imperial Battle-mage," Crixus added smugly. "And I won't have my opinions and desires be overridden by you fuckers."

"Crixus, please," Antilius interjected. "There's no reason to fall into dissent! We can talk now, if you want: I will answer your questions, then maybe you can answer mine."

"Why now?" asked Estalenya.

"We're all a bit worked up over this attack," Antilius stated. "We won't be getting any sleep tonight, I'll wager. Come now, Crixus, have a seat. Uh, Orc, dispose of this body, will you?" He then turned to Crixus, who waved Garnag off. The Orc scowled, then dragged the Synod mage's body away as Antilius slowly, and with many a groan, sat down beside Crixus. He cast a spell to re-ignite the fire, then they began to speak.

"So, you said I have explaining to do, yes?" Antilius asked Crixus. "What do you want explained?"

"That mage said you were a spy for the College of Whispers," Crixus stated. "Is this so?"

Antilius cleared his throat. "It's a complicated matter to discuss."

"Try me," Crixus returned.

"Centuries ago," Antilius began. "The third place of the triune head of the Elder Council was held by the Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild. After the unfortunate events that brought about the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild was abolished under the Order of the Common Good. The Synod and the College of Whispers were created shortly thereafter to police magical affairs throughout the Empire, but neither of them regained the kind of influence in the Elder Council which the Mages Guild had in his heyday. As such, the two organizations have strove to restore their influential seat." He cleared his throat.

"What he said was true," he continued. "At least from the Synod's point of view. In another life, I was a mage for the College of Whispers. I was sent to the Elder Council to serve as a secretary, and that has been my primary goal."

"What about from your point of view?" asked Crixus. "What do you see yourself as?"

"An agent working for the greater good of all of Cyrodiil," Antilius replied. "Surely you've heard the rumors about the plague in the Nibenay Basin. It's growing, it's moving north and west into great Colovia, but selectively. Only certain cities have been affected by the plague, others remain immune. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know," Crixus replied.

"The Grand Council of the Synod," Antilius said. "Believe that it has something to do with the quality of life in those areas. Well, according to them, Leyawiin is full of skooma-dealing Khajiits, Cheydinhal is full of foreign plants and animals being interred there by the Shield of Hlaalu, and Skingrad never recovered from the Great War. But the Arch-Canon of the College of Whispers has another theory."

"What is that?" asked Crixus.

"Have you not noticed," Antilius asked, turning to Crixus. "That every city that has been engulfed by the plague has no Synod presence there?"

Crixus' thoughts went to what Count Hassildor told him in Castle Skingrad. "You think the plague is magical in nature, and..."

"That the Synod are using it to consolidate their power in Cyrodiil?" Antilius finished. "Oh yes, that makes perfect sense. I mean, just because the College of Whispers summons daedra into the center of Leyawiin and destroys half the city because of it doesn't mean the Synod are all saints, priests and primates. They've done their fair share of nefarious deeds in the two centuries they've been active in Cyrodiil and High Rock."

"Why would the Synod create a plague to become more powerful?" asked Crixus.

"The usual ways have been less effective?" asked Antilius.

"But why risk so many lives?" asked Crixus. "Magic is not as dangerous as the ignorant Nords want to believe. And its users aren't exactly sadists themselves."

"Well, I'm no sadist," Antilius chuckled. "But I certainly do enjoy the smell of burned flesh when a fire-ball burns some poor bastard. Practicing on animals is no entertainment."

"I've seen what happens to the cities because of the plague," Crixus stated. "Skingrad was overrun with vagabonds, and dead bodies lined the streets, unburied. And even in Kvatch, there was an atmosphere of fear. Why would the Synod create fear and unrest in the Empire?"

"You're starting to sound like a wild-eyed peddler of conspiracy theories," Antilius stated. "One of those fools who thinks there's a Thalmor justicar behind every bush."

"I only meant..." Crixus interjected.

"Well, don't!" Estalenya added. "The Thalmor are our friends. They only mean to help us understand the doctrinal error of Talos worship and work together with the Empire for a bright, new future."

"She's right," Antilius stated. "Now, let's have no more talk about the Thalmor and tell us: why are the Synod sending their agents after you?"

"It's not the first time," Crixus said. "They did before, but...I don't know."

"What do you mean?" asked Antilius.

"I was...in some kind of trance," Crixus began. "And I broke into the Synod office in Kvatch. But that was a while ago."

"They wouldn't try to kill you over a break-in," Antilius stated. "They'd want to capture you and interrogate you first. Did you kill one of their members?"

"Not that I know of," Crixus replied.

"Well, you're not from the College of Whispers, that's for sure," said Antilius. "So that means it must be one other thing." He looked at Estalenya, who rolled her eyes and turned around. Antilius then leaned in close and whispered to Crixus: "Have you spoken to anyone about...the Tower?"

A chill went through Crixus' spine at the mentioning of those words. From every vision he since returning to Cyrodiil to the cryptic dismissal by Mercator Signis, the Tower seemed to haunt his dreams. Now it was being brought up again.

"Maybe," Crixus evasively replied. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with everything!" Antilius whispered. "Look, I'm not very knowledgeable on the Tower or the Towers, that was not my area of study. All I know is this: to understand the Tower, one must understand the Towers. And neither of these you should be asking about to anyone, whether of the Synod or the College of Whispers. It is dangerous!"

"Why?" asked Crixus. "What is the Tower that makes it so dangerous?"

"The very structure and existence of the mortal realm," whispered Antilius. "Is interconnected to the Towers. That's all I know and all I can say. Now, please, if you value your life, you will end this conversation and look no more into the Tower!" He sighed. "There are...other things of more import to discuss."

Crixus nodded, but Antilius' warnings made Crixus even more curious. Why was the Tower so dangerous that people couldn't even talk about it? What could possibly have enough power to threaten the existence of Mundus? The only thing close that came to mind was the Heart of Lorkhan, the primordial essence of the titanic god of change: but that was certainly not a tower, and it had been missing since, as the legends say, the time of the Nerevarine, Llevas Dorvayn as the old man had named him. What, then, was this Tower?

"I think I'm ready for sleep," Crixus said, his mind still abuzz with all of the things that had happened.

No further dreams or assassins assailed Crixus' sleep that night or throughout the next day. They were all very quiet after what had been talked of the night before, and spoke nothing to each other during the trip all that day. By evening they slept once again in the carriage, despite Crixus' protests. He was starting to get grumpy again, having his way denied and disregarded. To hell if they should think their opinions were better than his, no matter what "learning" they might have to support them. Then again, he hadn't had beer or women for far too longer than his desire. Already he began wishing that he could take off and go to the Newland Hall in Cheydinhal and indulge himself to his heart's content.

Nevertheless, another night passed after the attack and they were coming at last to the town of Chorrol. To Crixus' surprise, it was still smoking from the dragon's attack. As their carriage approached the gates, Estalenya had them hide their weapons in the cart, then stepped out, the hoods of their cloaks pulled down over their faces, and followed Crixus as he walked towards the gates of Castle Chorrol. By the time he had left Chorrol, Crixus had been given free reign to come and go as he pleased into the castle by the Count and the guards were told to allow him passage. So it was that, when he rose his face to them and announced who he was, they let him pass without incident.

What happened next was the strangest, though. In the courtyard of the castle, the Fighters Guild had made their temporary residence as their chapter hall had been destroyed. As it happened, they were training in the courtyard at this point, and, to Crixus' surprise, he recognized several faces among them. First he saw Viator, then Boderic and Casmar, Uncle Surius Maro's youngest children, and then, to his surprise, he saw Petruvius stand there, look towards the gates, then turn about and approach him.

"My lord!" he cried out, running toward him with a smile on his face. "Thank the Eight! We feared the worst when you were taken! But now you're back!"

Crixus was not happy to see him, for as soon as he saw Petruvius walking towards him, he remembered what Antilius and the High Chancellor had said. One of them had sold him out to the High Chancellor and was responsible for his internment. As soon as Petruvius was within arm's reach, Crixus seized the young man in a head-lock, then dragged him to the castle wall, kicking and struggling to free himself. At the wall, Crixus pushed Petruvius up against it, then came within an inch of his nose.

"Sir, what have I done?" begged the young man. In his look was such a look of terror as had not graced his face since he, in full knightly regalia, faced Eirik in Crixus' place at the gates of Riften.

"Was it you?" demanded Crixus.

"Me what?" asked Petruvius. "I don't know..."

"Don't play me for a fool!" threatened Crixus. "The Penitus Oculatus came to Skingrad and interrogated you about what I was doing. That's why they took me: they charged me with treason for restoring the knightly orders."

"Treason!" exclaimed Petruvius. "Sir, you've got to believe me..."

"How could they have known if one of you didn't tell them?" Crixus demanded. "Now, you might as well tell me: was it you? Did you tell them?"

"No, no, I didn't," Petruvius shook his head vigorously. "I swear by all the gods!"

"Who did?" Crixus demanded. "Who told the Oculatus about my business?"

"I don't know," Petruvius honestly answered. "They took us separately and asked us questions, but I never betrayed you."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Crixus asked.

"I am ready at any moment to give my life for you, sir!" Petruvius replied. "Remember Riften? Anyone else would have run away, going straight into the jaws of death like that. Not me, I volunteered. Do you remember, sir?"

Crixus grimaced, suddenly aware that he was accusing loyal Petruvius of betraying his secret. The events of the 2nd of Second Seed came back to mind. How could he have suspected him of betraying him? He let Petruvius go, but placed his hand on his shoulder to stop him from returning.

"I am sorry," Crixus said. It was one of the few times he had genuinely apologized. "I should have known you'd never betray me."

"Never, sir," sighed Petruvius. "Shall I call the others, let them know that you're back?"

"No, not yet," Crixus shook his head. "First things first: I need a bath."

* * *

It was not cold beer or a warm, lusty maid, but Crixus had been unwashed and living in a filthy dungeon for almost two weeks by now. He knew just how much he reeked, for he often caught Estalenya hiding her face in her sleeve during the long carriage ride. Immediately he went up to the keep and called for the Count to have his servants prepare him a bath.

"All will be explained once I've made myself presentable," he explained.

So it was that, less than ten minutes later, Crixus was brought to a wash-room where a wide barrel had been cut in half, lined with linen cloths and filled with water. Eagerly he tore off his clothes and buried himself in the steaming warm waters. They were still hot enough, having recently been warmed, and they instantly took off the chill of late autumn. The only downside to this bath was that the barrel was too small for Crixus to submerge himself completely, so he sat upright in the tub and, cupping water in his hands, poured it over his head. Here he remained for another ten minutes, washing the filth off his body. While he was cleaning his nethers, he felt a strange agitation below. However, just as he was rising out to examine himself out of the water - which, by now, had become rather murky - the door behind him opened up. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Arcadia Valga standing there, gazing at him.

"What do you want?" asked Crixus.

"Petruvius has brought the others together in the Count's hall," she said.

"Couldn't this have waited until I was out of the tub?" asked Crixus.

"It could," she replied, crossing her arms.

"Then why did you feel compelled to come in here and watch me?" asked Crixus. "Are you..."

"Gods, no!" she returned. "Is that the only thing on your mind? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a Nord: just kill, drink and fuck. That's all they believe in."

"Then why are you here?" asked Crixus.

"I just wanted to see you naked," Arcadia replied. "Just to look, not touch."

Crixus sighed, then turned around to continue washing himself, eager not to show her his member, which was still aching.

"You certainly have an appealing physique," she commented, gazing at his back-side. "A pity for all those scars, though."

"Every scar tells a story," Crixus said in defense: though he didn't know it, this was a sentiment he shared with Eirik and Mjoll. "Many of these I got during the Great War, though I suspect there are a few new ones there as well?"

"Yes, quite a few," she replied, noticing the gashes the torturer's lash had opened on his back. Her eyes, of course, kept going back to his ass. "Petruvius told us that you were prefect in Mournhold. Tell me, is it true that noble-women of the Great Houses can purchase man-servants for the sole purpose of serving their...special needs?"

"Man-servants, women-servants," Crixus replied. "Boy-servants, girl-servants. Men and boys without cocks, women and girls with cocks, beasts: anything they fancied. Slavery was re-instituted after House Hlaalu was disgraced and cast from the Great Houses."

"Hmm," Arcadia muttered, biting her lower lip as she leered at Crixus from behind his back. Her attention was not so much on his words.

Crixus, however, paid her little mind. Despite his burning member, strangely enough burning not to be sated by a woman's warmth, Crixus was pleased that his body could still elicit lust in a woman, though it did make him feel like the slaves he had seen in the markets in Mournhold. He was not as aggressive with her as he had been with Petruvius for the sole purpose that he had met her after the period, according to Antilius, when the Penitus Oculatus would have come to Skingrad to interrogate the others. He continued washing himself, going over those whom he should question. The Maro children could be excluded, and certainly Drogon: wherever that monster had run off to, he did not know. The others, however, would have to be interrogated.

At last Crixus finished and only until he dressed himself did Arcadia Valga leave him be. Dressed once again in the clothes that Estalenya and Antilius had purchased for him, he walked out into the main hall of the keep. There he saw everyone save for Drogon assembled: Petruvius, Lethia, Viator, Boderic, Larth, Casmar, Tiraa, Alcedonia, Quintus and Arcadia, they were all there. Estalenya, Garnag and Antilius were also there, near the Count's throne. Only Aelina was not present: the last he heard of her, she had gone to the Imperial City to retrieve the charter of the Mages Guild and had not yet returned. Nevertheless, he never doubted her: she had been with him in her house in the Shield Quarter and could not have told anyone. Firstly, he approached the Count.

"Crixus!" he spoke. "It's good to see you back among us, and alive! When they told me what happened, I feared the worst. Why did you not send for me to help you? I could have pulled a few strings, brought you back here sooner."

"Well, I'm back," Crixus stated. "And I did send for you, though it appears that message never got through."

"It surely didn't," said Gregor Fraseric. "For I never received any message from the Imperial City, from you or from anyone else."

"I see," Crixus grumbled. So the High Chancellor was not merely bluffing when he said that he had waived Count Fraseric's invitation to the trial. "I need to speak to my people here. Call them to order, then have your servants bring me the fastest ravens from your aviaries."

"Do you have messages to send?" asked the Count eagerly, feeling as though he was about to be let in on the secret business of the Emperor's agents.

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "For now, though, call them to order."

"Attention!" Count Fraseric spoke up in a loud voice. "The esteemed Servius Crixus wishes to speak to you all." He then gestured for a servant to fulfill Crixus' other request, then sat down as Crixus approached his followers.

"Early last month," he began. "The Penitus Oculatus came to Skingrad and interrogated all of you." Everyone save for Petruvius muttered at this. "During those interrogations, one of you told them something about my business. Something which High Chancellor Lexerus Buteo construed as treason." More scattered murmurs were heard, and a few frantic glances among them. Crixus called for silence and they all obeyed. His grim demeanor and firmly-set jaw gave him the likeness of a military commander: long had he witnessed this posture adopted by General Claxitus when disciplining his troops.

"Lethia, Viator, Boderic, Larth, Casmar," Crixus spoke. "Stand before me. The rest of you, pay heed to what shall happen." The five who were named made their way before Crixus. One by one, Crixus asked them what he had asked Petruvius upon first entering the courtyard of Castle Chorrol. All that they said need not be reiterated, for it was exactly what Petruvius had said: they all said that they were taken by the Penitus Oculatus and questioned separately, each in a separate room and unable to talk with each other. All of them also said that they told them nothing but that Crixus was a loyal son of the Empire. The only slight deviation was Casmar's story.

"I told them," he said. "That you were a son of the Empire, loyal and devoted. I trust, I knew very little about you at the time, but from what the others had told me about you before they appeared, I assumed that you were loyal, like any other Imperial."

This did not make Crixus happy in the least. He was out for blood, especially after being humiliated by the Penitus Oculatus and subjected to the tortures of the worst dregs of Imperial society. He was going to show them that he would not tolerate personal treason against him: their overriding of his decisions and opinions be damned, they had gone from b*tching at him to betraying him behind his back.

"One of you is lying," Crixus announced. "We will not stir from this place until I am given the truth!"

"Crixus?" Viator spoke. "Might I have a word with you?"

"Speak," Crixus said.

"In private" Viator added.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it publicly. If you wish to confess, it must be done in public, since this betrayal was done in secret."

"I know who betrayed you, sir," Viator replied.

"Don't say it, slave," muttered Lethia.

"Who betrayed me?" asked Crixus. "Was it Lethia?"

"Fuck no," grinned Viator, as if jesting. "If she got rid of you, who would protect her once her secret got out?"

"Who was it, then?" asked Crixus, growing more and more annoyed at their deliberation.

"It was that beast-fucker Larth," Viator said.

"Liar!" cried Larth.

"You've done nothing but show your disdain for him for as long as any of us can remember!" interjected Boderic, rising up to defend Larth.

"Your companions don't think your accusation is valid," Crixus said.

"He's been after him since the very first," Boderic added. "Petruvius will attest to this!"

"What do you say to that, Viator?" Crixus asked.

"Fuck you, god-thumper!" Viator sneered at Boderic, then turned to Crixus. "They've all been blinded by their sympathies and moral codes. I've spoken up about it before because I'm the only one not bound by rules and morals. I'm the only one who sees the truth."

"And what _is_ that truth?" asked Crixus.

"The truth is that those beast-fuckers can't be trusted," Viator replied. "It was a mistake to bring one of their own with us. He's always complaining about how he doesn't belong here, afraid of the dangerous things we get ourselves into. It was only a matter of time until he betrayed us to his friends, but then the Penitus Oculatus show up and he gave us away."

"Why would he tell my secret?" asked Crixus. "How could he even have known my secret?"

"The sneaky little fucker likely listened to one of our conversations," Viator replied. "As for why, once you're out of the picture, he can run back to his little friends in the forest and fuck foxes and rabbits to his heart's desire."

"It's a lie!" Larth cried. But now Crixus was standing before him, an angry look in his eyes that made the poor man quiver with fear.

"I trusted you," Crixus said. "I had such high hopes for you! You were to lead the animists back into loyal service of the Empire, and you betrayed me! You betrayed the Empire!"

"I didn't betray no one, believe me!" begged Larth. "I didn't tell nobody nothing!"

"Why does Viator think you did?" asked Crixus.

"I don't know!" Larth wept. He had no greater answer and, though his wit was small, he saw the look of anger in Crixus' eyes and it made him tremble. "But it wasn't me! You've got to believe me!"

"Who did betray my secret to the Penitus Oculatus?" asked Crixus.

"I don't know!" Larth continued, shaking his head.

Crixus was brought to a halt. All of them had spoken truthfully, as far as he could discern. Only one person had been condemned, and his defense was based on taking him at his word. Though surely High Chancellor Buteo would have had him executed by now, Crixus knew in his heart that there was not enough evidence to convict Larth of treason. But then a new thought began welling up inside of him. Whether Larth was innocent or guilty didn't matter, Crixus wanted blood. He wanted to show the others that he was not to be trifled with or questioned. He wanted revenge on the torment he had been given, the injustice that had been done to him. Guilty until proven innocent.

"Petruvius!" he called out. "Bring me a sword."

At once, Larth fell to his knees, groping at Crixus' feet like a whipped cur, begging and pleading for mercy. For a moment Crixus wavered once again. What if Larth was innocent? What would he be if he killed an innocent person, an innocent Imperial? Then the other side, the side that wanted blood, spoke again in his mind. He hadn't killed someone in a long while. No one was truly innocent: Eirik was certainly guilty of something or other, as all Nords were in his mind. Even the priests and primates were guilty of something: why else became they primates and priests except to escape justice?

By this time, Petruvius arrived with a sword from one of the Count's guards. Crixus took the sword in his hand, amidst gasps from the others as they watched the poor man begging at Crixus' feet.

"Please, sir!" he wept. "You have to believe me! I didn't tell nobody nothing! I'd never betray you! Not to the Great Seer! He don't want me back after leaving him! Mercy, please! Have mercy!"

Crixus gritted his teeth, his jaw set, then, in the way that deserters were executed in the Red Legions, drove the sword vertically down into the base of Larth's neck. Gasps came from everyone as they saw it before them. Crixus, meanwhile, said nothing as he removed the sword. The death was clean and not to his liking, for in that moment he doubted himself yet again. But, the need to set an example and the desire to kill being stronger, he compromised to at least give Larth the courtesy of a soldier's death.

"Let that be a lesson to you all," Crixus spoke. "I am a servant of our Emperor. I speak his will, and to disobey me is to disobey the Emperor. To question me is to question the Emperor. Long live the Empire!" He tossed the sword onto the ground, then pounded his chest and extended his arm. No one returned the salute, shocked as they were by the execution.

"Crixus," the Count finally spoke, his voice filled with emotion. "Your ravens are here."

"Good," grumbled Crixus. He then walked over to Petruvius. "I need you to write messages that can be sent before the evening."

"To whom, sir?" he asked.

"To Gorak gro-Shagk in Castle Dour in Solitude in Skyrim," Crixus said. "And..." He sighed.

"Sir?"

Crixus didn't know where to find Delphine. She hadn't exactly left an address for him to find her, as far as he could remember. But there was someone else he could call upon: someone else who had yet to fulfill his duty to him, someone who he could not have without in the days to come.

"Sir?" Petruvius asked.

"Another letter," Crixus finished. "To Eirik Bjornsson in Lakeview Manor, Falkreath, Skyrim."

* * *

**(AN: I wonder if anyone will be guessing what may happen in the future chapters. Bigger things are on the horizon, definitely.)**

**(While for the most part i've been very general with some of the descriptions of the Divines, there were three that i had to describe in detail. Stendarr, who appeared the first time someone tried to attack Crixus, took on the guise of Crixus' father, and Mara took the form of his mother [during _The Dragon of the South_]: the reason i had Stendarr appear as his father is a nod to _Game of Thrones_, whose Faith of the Seven has "the Father" as the god of justice. As for Talos, his description is taken from Marcus Aurelius from the film _Gladiator_. Tiber Septim is very divisive: people either loved him or they hated him, just like the real life Marcus Aurelius [people these days love him, especially philosophers; i think they love him because he persecuted Christians]. The images from the septim [which my brother, another Talos-hater like you all, calls "drakes" because, omg, _Morrowind_ said it first, ergo it must be superior!] and the statues in _Oblivion_ are Colovian versions of the Nord hero.)**

**(If you wish to pester me on when the next chapter will be updated, please do so in the reviews section below.)**


	41. A Triumphant Entry

**(AN: For those who have been reading and wondering, wonder no more. I will explain in this chapter what a certain other character has been doing all this time. Things are going to get even bigger, as the ante is risen in our story.)**

**(The Ecumenical Primature is based on a book created for the fan-project _Beyond Skyrim_. I am not affiliated with that and this story is independent of their work. I have perused it to get another's idea for what 4th Era Cyrodiil might look like, but, as this is my story, i do have the final say. Therefore my story doesn't follow everything they say, but i did use their influence to a degree as far as Sancre Tor went [though the blessing of Talos, obviously, i added since the version they wrote was a post-WGC revision]. If they are not pleased, then i will revise this story likewise [i hope not: like with _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, this story shows that i have pulled from fan-work as well as the official lore...as far as Kirkbride's numerous contradictions can be called "official lore."])**

* * *

**A Triumphant Entry**

The plan had not changed. Crixus made as much clear as soon as Larth's body had been cleared away. He was still going to go to Bruma by way of Sancre Tor, and continue as he had begun. But now an urgency was built up within Crixus, such as they had not seen before in all of their travels with him. The imprisonment by the Elder Council seemed to have roused in Crixus something which they had not seen before. He was very quick with his followers, only telling them what they needed to know and that very hastily.

"We're leaving today," Crixus stated. "As soon as we can be ready, so you're wasting time just standing around here, asking me stupid questions!"

Petruvius only came in to ask Crixus what his plans were, so that he might prepare his horse and get Lethia ready. Boderic did not come in, for he was still shaken and upset over the death of Larth. He asked the Count to be allowed to take the body to a grave outside the city, where he would administer the last rites, such as the priests of Arkay did. As there were no priests - the chaplain of the Chapel of Stendarr had died in the dragon-fire and the nearest priests of Arkay were in Cheydinhal - the Count agreed to this and so Boderic was not present for a while. But there were two who came before him who, after he gave his dismissal, did not leave. Crixus, who was going through his room, trying to see if there was anything he had left behind that had not been taken by the Penitus Oculatus, suddenly realized that these two were still standing in the door-way of his room: Alcedonia and Quintus Maro.

"You're still here?" he asked. "Why?"

"I think you owe us an explanation, Crixus," Alcedonia stated, a look of sadness mixed with horror in her face.

"An explanation for what?" he returned.

"While you were gone," she began. "A messenger arrived from Anvil. He said..." She swallowed back the lump in her throat as the tears welled up in her eyes. "He said that auntie Selvia was dead, that cousin Gaius was dead, and..."

"And what?"

"That you were responsible," she returned.

Crixus rolled his eyes, which only managed to make her angrier, since it seemed that he cared little for her family; their family. "I haven't seen Selvia Maro since, oh, I don't know, Heartfire? How could I have killed her when I've been on the road, huh? You tell me!"

"A-Alright, alright!" she returned. "I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt regarding auntie Selvia. But what about Gaius, huh? You haven't denied that, did you?"

"I never knew Gaius," Crixus lied. "Our paths never had the fortune of passing."

"But Petruvius said," Alcedonia retorted. "That you received your orders from the Emperor. How could you have spoken to him without going through the Oculatus first?"

"My relation with the Emperor was...complicated," Crixus replied. "And Gaius was not there when..."

"Yes?" she asked. "When what?"

"At the end," Crixus finished, still unwilling to share that the Emperor was truly dead. Though he felt in his heart that he would have to tell them eventually, if only his version. The fact that he had been captured and imprisoned for treason would be on their minds, especially since they were all there when he was taken by the Oculatus. In the back of his mind, he dared to imagine what might happen if the Maro family knew about what he had truly done. It would be worse than a thousand unanswered letters from Severus and twenty years away from them all.

"What about you, Quintus?" Crixus asked at last. "What do you have to say?"

"Nothing, Crixus," Quintus shook his head. "Dony brought me with her."

"Then you both can get yourselves together at once," Crixus replied. "We're wasting time here."

Eventually they did leave, and Crixus continued his search throughout the room. When at last he was convinced that he had truly lost everything he had, he decided to ask the Count for a horse. It was at that moment that Tiraa appeared in his doorway.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"We're ready," she stated. "We can leave when you're ready. Is there anything you'd like me to get before we leave?"

"Yes, actually," Crixus nodded. "Do you have any way of scrying?"

"I thought I told you that I can't see the future," she replied.

"Then how do you know so much?" Crixus asked.

"I have many powerful connections that I have made over the many long years," Tiraa replied. "In fact, I believe I have a lead on who tried to have you killed."

"Is that why you're here?" Crixus asked.

"One reason, yes," she returned. "I sent a sample of the poison of the wick-wheat gum you pulled off the Morag Tong assassin to a friend in Cheydinhal. The wick-wheat was dipped in the boiled stock of scrib cabbage."

"Scrib cabbage?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, Crixus," she replied. "As someone who spent twenty years of his life in Mournhold, I'm sure you know all about scrib cabbage. Eaten in droves by scrib, the little dears, but poisonous to man or mer who eat them. But this is highly distressing, to say the least."

"Why is that?" asked Crixus.

"Well, scrib cabbage doesn't grow in Cyrodiil," Tiraa replied. "It only grows in Morrowind. The Shield of Hlaalu have had very difficult time trying to acquire Morrowind dirt to regrow these plants for the restoration of Vvardenfell. They would be the only ones who would have access to scrib cabbage outside of Mournhold."

"Why would the Shield of Hlaalu want me dead?" asked Crixus.

"Well, they wouldn't," she returned. "I've made the proper introductions to my other friends in Cheydinhal, the ones working with the Shield of Hlaalu. They know you can be trusted, they wouldn't do this kind of thing."

"Well, who would, then?" asked Crixus.

"I don't know," Tiraa shook her head. "I'll have to ask the first friend I told you about. She's an Illusionist, but keeps a scrying orb of her own. She should be able to provide us with answers."

"Good," Crixus nodded. "Now, get out of here. I have a call to make, then we're leaving."

After Tiraa left, Crixus went as fast as he could to what was left of the Great Oak Place. It was still in ruins and many buildings were black and in ruins. Few people came back to rebuild, though several buildings were being repaired, such as the Chorrol hall of the Fighters Guild. The one in particular which Crixus sought, the Synod office, was being rebuilt as well. As he approached, he saw Eldarie directing workers and mages in the repairing of the building. He addressed her and asked her if Mercator Signis had survived the dragon attack.

"He survived, that is certain," Eldarie replied. "I made sure that he was removed as quickly as possible. But he is not here."

"Where is he?" Crixus asked. "I have some very important words to say to him."

"He went east," Eldarie said. "But of his journey I cannot say. He left on the twenty-third of last month with no word of where he was going to anyone."

Crixus was more than a little annoyed. He had guessed that this 'M.S.' who the Synod mage had let slip was, in fact, Mercator Signis. It seemed ridiculous to believe that an old man who could barely walk, and who had been so kind and courteous in their first meeting, could have orchestrated his murder. He wanted to know the truth, but now it seemed that the truth lay eastward, where his road lay as well: north and eastward. Towards Sancre Tor, and Bruma.

* * *

After his visit to the Synod office, Crixus went at once to the courtyard of Castle Chorrol, where he called his followers together and set forth on their journey once again. As he had no horse of his own, he rode in the carriage with Estalenya and Antilius. After leaving the city gates, Petruvius used Crixus' horn, which had been given him before his capture, and Drogon joined their little party. It was mid-afternoon when they finally left Chorrol and they did not stop until evening. There they pulled the carriage off the road and pitched their tents around it, lighting a small fire and resting for that evening. They had little talk, though few people dared talk to Crixus after what had happened with Larth. Tiraa, however, remained as variable and unpredictable as ever. For the present, she spoke to Crixus when the others wouldn't, and congratulated him regarding Antilius Luco.

"This will be a fine start," she said cryptically, but would not answer regarding what start she meant.

The next day, they packed up their tents and returned to the main road. They went swiftly, but not as swiftly as Crixus would have preferred. Towards the evening, after they had made camp, Petruvius and Lethia finally mustered up the courage to ask Crixus the particulars regarding what had happened when he disappeared. Crixus told them the truth, leaving out only that Garnag had been in the Dark Brotherhood. As far as they knew, he was a prisoner with Crixus who had helped him escape. Then, still in good spirits, Crixus asked them what had happened to them after he was captured.

"I feared the Penitus Oculatus wouldn't honor our agreement," Crixus explained. "And for a time, I feared you were all dead."

"We weren't dead, sir," Petruvius began. "But we came very close to being dead. After you left, those who had caught us wanted to kill us then, but the captain ordered them to stand down. 'We'll come for you in time,' said the captain, then they all left. Well, that was as clear a threat as any. Therefore we all decided to return to Chorrol: Count Fraseric is friendly to our cause and could offer us asylum. We had thought to send a message to the Imperial City on your behalf, but, well...it was the Penitus Oculatus! Everyone knows not to cross them!"

"Indeed," Crixus nodded.

Their camp was undisturbed by bandits, wild beasts, animists, or dreams and visions from Crixus' mind. In the morning, they all arose and, without much ado, took down their tents and continued on their way. Though they went uphill most of the way, all seemed to be going easy and without any difficulty. The Penitus Oculatus, or any other such agents, did not show their faces. In fact, they met with no one else until about noon.

By this time, they had cleared the golden trees they had seen before and were climbing up into the highlands, the air growing thinner and colder as they went. Ahead there appeared a lone rider dressed in winter clothes, with a cloak and hood. Rather than hold his place, the rider was riding towards them. Petruvius relayed the news immediately to Crixus.

"To arms!" Crixus announced. "I'll not be taken again without a fight! Not this time!"

The company halted, and those who were knights took out their swords or maces, while Estalenya, Antilius, Lethia and Tiraa, mages and battle-mages, took staves and spells in hand and stood behind the knights. Drogon with his mighty battle-axe grumbled behind them all, eager to kill: for many long weeks he had been confined to the woods, killing only wild animals to sustain his appetite.

The rider came to a halt within bow-shot of the defenders, though none of them save Petruvius had arrows. At this, the rider cupped his hands to his mouth and cried out: "I come in peace. Please, let me speak to your commander, Servius Crixus."

"Who says that he travels with us?" asked Petruvius. "We've never heard of the name before!"

"My master knew that you would be on this road," the rider said. "Our scouts have seen him in his camps. Dissembling is futile. Let Servius Crixus come forth."

"Over our dead bodies!" Petruvius retorted.

"Well, maybe yours," added Viator, who sat on his horse at Petruvius' side.

"If we had meant to kill him," the rider said. "We would have done so. Come now, the day wears on. My master's message must be delivered."

"I am here!" Crixus cried out from the carriage, leaning his head out. "Any message you have for me you can say here and now."

"My master insists that I give you the message alone!" the rider replied.

At this, Crixus left the carriage and, amid fearful whispers from those around him, strode forth to meet the rider. As he approached, he saw that the rider was clad in, of all things, the same armor he had seen Delphine and Ragni wear: the Akaviri armor of the Blades.

"Well, you wanted me alone," Crixus said, as he approached the rider's horse. "And here I am. What is your message?"

"My master," he said to Crixus, nodding. "Delphine has ordered you to come to Cloud Ruler Temple at once so that she may present you before the Blades as the Dragonborn Emperor."

Crixus nodded, but made no outward recognition. Once this was told, he knew that there would be no going back. The others would be in on his little act of 'treason', and they must either take the Ruby Throne now or face certain defeat and die. He wondered what Pelagius would think of him now, wherever he was.

"Very well," Crixus replied. "Tell her that I will come to Cloud Ruler Temple before a week has ended. No sooner and no later."

"Make haste, Your Highness," the Blade rider replied. "Our grandmaster awaits your coming." And with that, he turned his horse about and galloped away. Crixus, meanwhile, made his way back to the carriage and the line of his defenders. He had already sent out the messages, and he knew that he had to wait for them to arrive. Therefore he gave them all a week, after which he would be at Cloud Ruler Temple or he would not be.

"What was that, sir?" asked Petruvius.

"Summons to appear at Cloud Ruler Temple," Crixus said to him.

"By who?" he asked.

"You will know in due time," replied Crixus. "For now, nothing changes. We go to Sancre Tor."

The others sheathed their blades and mounted up again, wondering what words had passed between Crixus and the rider. They had not spoken loud enough that they might be heard, therefore even Lethia, the one whose hearing was keenest, heard nothing of what was said. Nevertheless, they mounted up and, as soon as the rider had disappeared, continued on their way north and east, towards Bruma.

* * *

Northward the Colovian Highlands rose into great heights, crowned with snow as they rose yet higher and higher, becoming more and more rugged, until at last they reached the flanks of the Jerall Mountains. Silver these rose in their loftiness, echoing the even greater majesty of the highest peak in all of the North. Then they began to fall down in sleep slopes, leveling out at last into gentler, if still rocky, inclines and hills that carried down into a wide green valley filled with evergreens.

At the northern border of the forest, a great wall of mountains rose up out of the land, standing as a great silver wall against the golden tundra beyond. But on the foothills of these shorter mountains, on the side of the forest, lay a vast lake, sitting at the mouth of a long river like the bowl at the end of a ladle. This was Lake Ilinalta, the sapphire eye in the center of the green eye of Falkreath's mighty forests. On the southeastern shores of that lake was a great hall, albeit half completed. This hall was Lakeview Manor, home of Eirik Bjornsson, the Dragon of the North.

In the interim months between today, the fourteenth of Sun's Dusk, and the Siege of Solitude, Eirik had returned to his new home here on the shores of Lake Ilinalta. From here he often visited Whiterun, doing his service to the Companions as their Harbinger. Often, however, he was kept very busy. He was also the leader of the Sons of Skyrim, the defenders of the southern holds of Falkreath and the Rift, and was often moving about Skyrim on the business of taking care of its people. And what little time he had away from this was dedicated to building his new house, taking care of his little family, and working the only job he knew to do: wood-cutting.

Today was a cold, overcast day of late autumn. But Eirik had to work nonetheless, to secure the hall for living in during the coming months of winter. Most of the Sons of Skyrim were abroad, but Ralof, Bjorn and Noralv were here to help him with the building. Jordis the Sword-maiden, once a huscarl in service to Elisif the Fair, now de facto High Queen of Skyrim, was here as well, helping Eirik build his house. Mjoll was nearby, with her friend Aerin, the little adopted daughter Lucia, and her own child Sigrun, strapped securely to her back.

While they were thus engaged in the building, a rider approached from the road to Oakwood. Most news from the city of Falkreath came from thither, and, as the hall was hard by the highway side, they often saw riders galloping on news to and from Falkreath and Riverwood. Many workers went this way as well, and Eirik was often hired by them to cut and haul lumber up into the mountains towards Helgen, which was being rebuilt. This day, however, the rider came to a halt.

"Which one of you is called Eirik?" the rider asked.

"I am," said Eirik. Save for Noralv, he was the tallest one here, with large, broad shoulders, long brown hair and a short, brown beard. In his hands currently was a large axe, though his preferred weapon of choice was a great-sword wielded with both hands, that lay inside the hall.

"A messenger raven arrived from Chorrol in Cyrodiil," the rider said. "It came to the hall of my lord, Jarl Dengeir. I've brought it here to you."

"A message?" Eirik asked. "From who?"

"See for yourself," the rider said, dismounting from his horse and, plucking the letter from a saddle-bag, handed it to Eirik. Having learned to read and write in the Bruma University, a relatively new establishment built from what had once been the Chapel of Talos, Eirik had no need to call upon any to read for him as he opened the letter and perused therefrom.

"What does it say?" Ralof, who was nearest to him, asked.

Eirik chuckled. "It appears to be summons."

"Summons? From who?" asked Ralof.

"From Cyrodiil," he said. "I'm instructed to appear at Sancre Tor. Both myself and the Sons of Skyrim."

"Really?" asked Ralof. "All of us as well?"

"Aye," Eirik nodded.

"It might be a trap," Ralof stated. "Getting us all together in one place, and in the Imperial Province, no less!"

"They would be foolish to try to kill us all," Eirik said. "Haven't we killed enough Imperials and Thalmor to show that we're not to be trifled with? And I'll be with you, of course."

"Right," Ralof chuckled with good humor. "The Dragonborn. Those Imperials would be fools to oppose us with you at our head."

"How soon can we get the others together?" Eirik asked.

"For you, at once," Ralof replied.

"Good," Eirik said. "We'll meet at the Pale Pass tomorrow. Do not wait for those who will tarry."

"Absolutely!" Ralof said, and ran off to find Bjorn and Noralv.

Eirik, meanwhile, held the letter in his hands as he went in search of Mjoll. While he was thus afoot, Jordis approached him.

"I heard that you would be going away soon," she said. "To Cyrodiil?"

"Aye, that's true," Eirik replied.

"Who summoned you?" she asked.

"See for yourself," Eirik offered, giving her the letter. Huscarls were often taught how to read, and Jordis, having grown up in Solitude, was more educated than even most of the huscarls in Skyrim. As she read the letter, her hands trembled and she let it fall. She turned to Eirik, a look of steel determination in her eyes.

"Let me go to Sancre Tor with you," she said, in a tone that bespoke no room for placating.

"He called for the Sons of Skyrim," Eirik said.

"I may not be part of your band," Jordis replied. "But I want to go there myself. I have a few things to say to Servius Crixus."

"Very well," Eirik nodded, a sympathetic and knowing look on his eyes. "You will come with us." He sighed, as usual. "I must speak to Mjoll, let her know that I will be leaving soon."

* * *

About this very same time on this very same day, the host of Servius Crixus arrived at Sancre Tor, the Golden Hill. There upon the golden hill, capped now with the early snow of late autumn, rose the spires and towers of the Ecumenical Primature. During the Stormcrown Interregnum, priests and prelates of the Church of the Nine fled the chaos and strife of the lowlands to meditate and pray to the Eight and One for salvation from these dark times. Over the years they repaired the ruins on this old hill and made there houses and farms for themselves, and new temples dedicated to the Nine Divines. It grew and grew until it became known as a place of refuge and sanctuary for all devotees of the Faith of the Nine.

As the Dragon-Fires in the Temple of the One in the Imperial City lay ashen cold since Martin's death, the divine blessing on the next occupant of the Ruby Throne, in the hearts and minds of the people, rested upon the Primates of the Convocation of the Golden Hill, the Ecumenical Primature. Therefore it was that Titus Mede I, who rose from that time to take the Ruby Throne as his own, came to this place for their blessing and received it. A book, _The Affirmation of Titus Mede_, was later written about this, in which it told of the Nine Primates giving Titus their blessing. After the Great War came to an end, the blessing of the Ninth, "Talos sees the valor within you and finds you worthy", was erased from the new copies of the book and the Nine became Eight as the Imperial state, controlled by the Thalmor, took power over the church.

Unlike Titus, Crixus rode in on his carriage with all of his entourage, right up to the gates of the monastery. The chantries and priests opened the gates, for it was not their policy to turn away their hospitality from any. Even Drogon was permitted to enter, though, naturally, there were glances of shock and alarm at a massive minotaur with the body of a human. Once the carriage came to a halt, Crixus left the carriage and stood before in the center of the monastery upon the Golden Hill.

There were houses where the devotees and primates lived, there were large halls for guests who were welcomed to stay here, and there were towers here as well, for Sancre Tor was once a fortress and the Primates, over time, built up the old defenses as well to keep out the wild animals and, of late, the animists who only came to burn, pillage and rape. Highest among these places were eight tall temples, each dedicated to the Eight Divines. Of old a Chapel of Talos stood here as well, and its lofty spire rose up in equal splendor as the other eight. But Emperor Titus Mede II outlawed the Order of Talos and had all churches torn down, all shrines desecrated and all priests to renounce Talos as a god. To that end, the Ecumenical Primature tore the Chapel of Talos down to its foundations, then uprooted these as well. In its place a graveyard was kept and tended.

Crixus now stood before the Chapel of Akatosh, and called out to those who appeared before him at the doors of the Temple.

"Hail," he said. "I am Servius Crixus, commander of the 9th Legion and servant of the Emperor. My companions and I are on our way to Bruma, and have stopped here to take rest. We will not be here long, but in that time, we only ask for a bit of your hospitality."

"It shall be done, my son," the Primate of Akatosh, an old man in orange robes with a long white beard, spoke. Though he was old, his voice carried throughout the courtyard, so that all of Crixus' companions heard his words. "We turn none away from the doors of our humble dwelling. All that we have to offer is yours. Come, rest yourselves, and let food be made ready for you while you forget the toils and troubles of the road."

None of them refused the offer of food. The Primate of Akatosh had Crixus into a hall that was nigh unto the Temple of Mara, where the Maran devotees always showed hospitality to all who came to them. All of them entered that hall, even Drogon entered with none stopping him. They were ushered into a large hall with a long table with benches for all to sit and eat together. This they did eagerly, for they were indeed weary and had packed little in the way of food-stuffs for their journey. None of them refused a second, third or even, in the case of Viator, a fourth helping: Drogon ate more than all the others. Yea, they were in such wholesome spirits that Lethia rose her hand more than a few times to remove her hood.

"I feel so at home here," she told Crixus, who was sitting across from her, when he noticed her gesture. "I feel that I do not need the hood."

"Don't be so sure," Crixus replied. "There may be other eyes here, guests apart from us who are not as wholesome or trustworthy. Besides, we won't be staying here very long. Only enough time to collect the others." He took a big bite from the baked potatoes on his plate, then noticed Tiraa, sitting at his right, eying the food as if it were last week's rotting gruel.

"What's wrong?" asked Crixus.

"I can't stomach human food!" she groaned. "It's so...disgusting and heavy. Where's the kwama eggs or scuttle?"

"Scuttle?" asked Viator, who sat across from Tiraa, separated from Lethia by Petruvius. "That sounds like some kind of bird-shite."

"It's made from the beetles that are native to Morrowind," Tiraa retorted.

"Fuck!" Viator exclaimed. "Is everything in Morrowind fucking beetles and lizards?"

"I should ask the same of you," she retorted. "Is everything in Cyrodiil covered in hair and possessing of more tits than an Orc?"

"What was that?" grumbled Garnag, who stood behind Crixus.

"Well, everyone knows that Orcs have six pig-tits," Tiraa stated as if it were common knowledge. "Am I right?"

Garnag snarled, but Crixus told him to stand down. They were all of them happy at being here: even Crixus was not upset over the food present. He then turned to Tiraa and explained.

"We don't have Morrowind cuisine in Cyrodiil," he said. "Eat up."

She groaned. "I never had to eat this _n'wah_ fodder when I was in Chorrol. My friend always managed to send me food from Cheydinhal." She took a bite of the potatoes, then grimaced. "Ugh, they're too moist!"

"Aren't they exactly like the ash yams in Morrowind?" asked Petruvius.

"I'll excuse your _n'wah_ ignorance for your master's sake," Tiraa replied, rolling her eyes. She then turned to Crixus. "You know, as much as I hate them on principle, House Sadras' retainers in the Sarys family have done our people a great boon."

"How so?" asked Crixus, curious to hear the retainer of one Great House complementing another.

"Since Cheydinhal is mostly Dunmer," she began. "And we hate your food as much as we hate all _n'wah_ things, we often eat food imported from home. Well, what's left of home, anyway. But Countess Sarys is different. She ordered acres of land on the borders of Morrowind to be cultivated for the purpose of growing food for the growing population of Dunmer. The Shield of Hlaalu have been able to capitalize on the sudden availability of familiar soil in our efforts to restore our native flora and fauna."

"Cultivate the soil?" Petruvius asked. "How is that done?"

"Do I look like an agriculturalist?" she asked. "You'll see for yourself when we get to Cheydinhal." She then looked at Crixus. "If we ever do get there."

"What lies there for us?" asked Crixus.

"Oh, many things," she replied. "Useful things, especially towards our mutual endeavors."

"Like your friend, the Illusionist?" asked Crixus. "The one you've mentioned so much, your scryer and personal grocer?"

"Oh, she doesn't entertain visitors," Tiraa shook her head. "No, she was always more...reclusive than my other contacts. Keeps very much to herself, never gives me a return address. She was the one who taught me the Seek spell, the one I put on the stone I gave you, so that my messages could always find you. By the way, Crixus, what became of that stone?"

Crixus said nothing as he rose from the table, most of his food uneaten.

* * *

For the next two days they remained at Sancre Tor, under the hospitality of the Ecumenical Primates. The Primates themselves they did not see much of, for they were often busy at prayers or with the other brethren. The days grew colder and colder, until the priests and chantries gave them all woolen blankets and fur cloaks. For Drogon, no cloak could be made to match his massive height, so a coat of many furs was sewn together by the monks there, which the minotaur draped over his shoulders and was thereby warmed. Every day at morning, noon and evening, Crixus would go to the northern towers and ask the watchmen if they saw anyone coming from the Jerall Mountains, and each morning the answer was the same.

"No news from the north," they would say.

In the afternoon on the third day, Crixus began to grow impatient. Not even the Orc army had arrived and he was wondering why the Primates had not spoken to him. Out of some arrogance in his heart, Crixus believed that, despite his many blasphemies and insolent remarks to their faces, the Divines would bless his mission to become the Emperor. Therefore, that afternoon, he went to the Chapel of Akatosh, where the other monks told him the Eight Primates often met for prayer, counsel and meditation. In there he went and found them all kneeling in a circle, praying.

"Speak to me!" Crixus spoke. "What do the Divines have to say to me?"

"Crixus," the Primate of Akatosh greeted. "We knew you would come to us."

"How?" asked Crixus. "Did your all-knowing gods tell you that I'd be here?"

"Yes, in fact," the Primate of Akatosh returned.

"So, then?" Crixus asked. "Is there no blessing for me?"

"Blessing?" the Primate of Mara, an old woman in white robes, asked.

"Yes," Crixus replied. "Titus named me as his heir to the Ruby Throne, and I need your blessing. Well, mostly for the peoples' sake. They need to see that the Divines are on my side."

"The question is not if the Divines are on your side," the Primate of Akatosh spoke. "But whether _you_ are on the Divines' side."

"Whatever, that's not important," Crixus replied. "What do you say? Will you bless me tomorrow, at the Meeting of the Golden Hill?"

"These two days," the Primate of Akatosh replied. "We have been long in prayer with the Divines, concerning you. They have told us that they struggle ever to bring you back to themselves. Until that day, we can give you no blessing."

"What the fuck?" asked Crixus. "I don't kiss the arses of useless, feeble gods and you won't bless me? Is that it?"

"How many times," quoth the Primate of Stendarr, who was only just graying and had more fire than the Primates of Akatosh and Mara. "Have the Divines showered mercies and blessings upon you, only to be spurned by you in your arrogance? Come before them in humility and contrition, forsaking your vain grievances, and they will heed your prayers and bless you."

"Kiss their arses, you mean?" Crixus retorted. "Why? Have I not proven myself all these years? Am I not honest, just, respectful, wise, passionate and loyal? Do I not deserve your blessing?"

"You have spoken so many lies," quoth the Primate of Zenithar. "That you no longer can discern the truth. Zenithar cannot bless you."

"You have within you neither justice nor mercy," the Primate of Stendarr angrily said. "Therefore Stendarr cannot bless you."

"You deride charity as a weakness," the Primate of Mara said in her soft, soothing voice, filled with sadness. "Mara cannot bless you."

"You have forsaken the spirit which Kynareth gave to you before you were born," quoth the Primate of Kynareth, an elderly Nord woman. "Kynareth cannot bless you."

"You believe that you alone are all-knowing and all-wise," the Primate of Julianos said. "Such is not the path of wisdom. Julianos cannot bless you."

"You live a loose life, held by the chains of your lusts," the Primate of Dibella, a woman of middle age, said. "Dibella cannot bless you."

"You respect neither life nor death," quoth the Primate of Arkay, an old, hooded man with an iron mask upon his face. "Arkay cannot bless you."

"You have neither respect nor fear of the Divines in your heart," said the old Primate of Akatosh. "Even now, you shirk your duties and put to mockery the commands of the Eight Divines and their priests. Akatosh cannot bless you."

"Cannot?" Crixus returned, now flaming angry. "You mean _will_ not, don't you? You old cunts! I don't need your blessing, or the blessing of your invisible fairy-tale gods. I will claim what is mine by my own power, and then, once I have the Ruby Throne, I'm coming for you all!" With that, he turned about and stormed out of the Chapel of Akatosh, angrily kicking the dust as he walked.

That night he was restless and did not sleep. Instead, he went back to the Chapel of Akatosh in secret. There he found, in the sanctuary, the Primates still in their circle, praying. A strong desire came over him to creep over to the nearest one and throttle him or her. How dare they reject him! But his chance passed as they, one by one, rose up and began to walk their own separate ways. Crixus could not be everywhere at once, so he summoned the Agency of Shadow, then started with the Primate of Akatosh. He followed him into a humble chamber in one of the small houses adjacent to the Chapel of Akatosh. The door was shut and, though he had no lock-picks, Crixus was sure he could find another way inside. He had to make them see that he would not be denied!

Then another thought came into his mind. No matter if he killed the Eight Primates, there were others here at Sancre Tor. They would rise up to take their places and he would be no better off for all of his trouble. A smile crept onto his face, then he, still hidden, returned to his room to plan.

* * *

Crixus had spent all night up, planning and preparing. So it was that, in the morning, he was fast asleep when the horn sounded and a voice cried out: "Look to the West! A host comes up out of the West!" Upon hearing this, Crixus rose up and sped to the West Tower as swiftly as he could go. There he saw a host bearing the banners of the Red Legion marching towards Sancre Tor. Gorak and the Orc Legions had arrived.

At once he told the others to make ready, then ran out to meet his old friend. Gorak was grim yet friendly as ever, at the head of the host in Legion regalia. Crixus was grateful to have such strong and loyal warriors on his side. Long ago Uriel Septim had broken the power of Orsinium and brought them under the Imperial yoke. They never had a place on the Elder Council, though they were expected to pay taxes, submit troops to Legion levies and conduct themselves according to Imperial law. When Orsinium had been sacked during the Fourth Era, the Empire sent no relief effort to them. Nevertheless, whatever had caused the Warp in the West had broken Orsinium. Now the Orcs, though as mighty as any Nord - some believed mightier - were loyal and obedient subjects of the Empire.

"Glad I am to have you back with me, Gorak," Crixus chuckled.

"It will be just like old times," Gorak replied. "Where is Shaddar?"

"He's in Senchal in Elsweyr, last I heard of him," Crixus replied. "Now, we must talk. There are grim deeds ahead, great things to be done for the safety of the Empire."

"As always," Gorak replied. "The Orc Legions are at your command."

The next three hours the brothers at Sancre Tor hurried about, getting together as much food and lodging for the Orc army as they could. Crixus, meanwhile, returned to the North Tower, eagerly watching for the coming of the last ones he had designed to appear at Sancre Tor. Yet the day wore on and not so much as a sign of them was seen in the snowy uplands of the Colovian Highlands.

The noon-day bell sounded and Crixus had Petruvius bring his lunch up from the dining hall to his place at the North Tower. Still there remained no sign of them. He wondered if he could, once he was in power, convince the Elder Council to try Eirik for treason. After all, he had told him that he would call upon him ere the end, and if he did not come, that was clearly a direct defiance of an order from his Emperor. Again and again he looked back out to the north, towards the mountains. This time he saw, in the midst of the snow white peaks, tiny black specks like ants crawling on a spire of silver.

For a long time he waited, gazing out towards the mountains, watching the line of ants climb down from the mountains, still dark against late autumn's snow. An hour passed and still they were nothing but dark specks. Another hour passed and still nothing. Even after a third hour had passed, the figures were still indeterminate. Then, as four o'clock came and the sun was already starting to grow low in the west behind the overcast sky, the bell was rang in the tower. Crixus asked the lookout for a spy-glass, with which he viewed their approach. A small company of men on horseback could be seen, riding slowly across the plain at a walking pace. Their banner was green and bore a white raven upon it. At the head rode a tall warrior on a white horse clad in armor made of the bones of dragons.

The Sons of Skyrim had come to Cyrodiil.

They were still a ways off and not in any hurry, as Crixus saw. Nevertheless, he ran down from the North Tower and called for everyone to prepare themselves. Almost four days had they spent of their week, and it would certainly take them long to arrive in Bruma in such great numbers: a hundred and fifty Orcs, Crixus' party of thirteen and now twenty-two he espied in the highlands a-horse, coming towards Sancre Tor. He deemed that they would leave tonight, as soon as the Meeting of the Golden Hill had ended and they were all assembled.

Another ten minutes passed and Crixus ran up to the North Tower and could clearly espy them now, unaided, with his keen eyes. They were Nords indeed: several of them wore steel or mail hauberks, but most of them were clad in fur and skins. Even the leader was draped in a heavy cloak made of the pelt of a bear. Ten more minutes passed and now the host arrived at Sancre Tor. They rode into the courtyard, where Crixus and his companions were waiting for them. The leader, who Crixus properly guessed was Eirik, dismounted from off Frost, the white stallion he rode, and looked about at the chapels about him. They all bore grim expressions on their faces, as Crixus saw, and more than a few of the looks on his companions' faces were unfriendly.

"Crixus," Eirik spoke. "I am here, as you requested."

"Well, that's good," Crixus replied. "Why don't your men come on down off your horses and rest a while? You and your band must have come a long way."

"That we have," Eirik nodded, walking up towards Crixus. He then took another look around.

"What?" asked Crixus. "You've never been to Sancre Tor?"

"No, I haven't," Eirik replied. "Not even in all of my time in Bruma."

"Who is this?" Arcadia spoke up angrily. "What are these savages doing in this place of peace? They'll tear it all apart!"

"These are the Sons of Skyrim," Crixus said. "And this, Eirik, is Arcadia Valga, a lady of the House of Nobles, if that means anything to you."

"Not very much," Eirik replied. "The only nobles I knew were the Counts of Bruma: Ansvild the Old and his son and heir, Edvald the Dishonorable."

"Edvald the Wise, you mean," Arcadia retorted.

"It is not wisdom to be ashamed of one's heritage," Eirik stated. "Or to destroy the culture of its people."

"When that 'culture', as you so lovingly call it," Arcadia retorted. "Is responsible for repeated acts of murder and barbarism, the Empire has the right and duty to destroy it!"

"Please, please," Crixus interjected, surprised that he was doing this when he agreed with Arcadia. "There is much to talk about before we fall to arguing."

"Nords fight with swords," Falke Four-Fingers, one of the Sons of Skyrim and most like Viator, added. "Imperials fight with words." Arcadia scowled but said nothing more.

"Eirik, come," Crixus spoke, waving him onward. "I must talk to you in private." Eirik walked over to Crixus, who was bringing him to a place apart from the others.

"So, tell me," Crixus spoke. "What have you been doing since we left in Solitude? And with who have you left your Lioness and your child, back in Skyrim? And is this all the Sons of Skyrim? I swear there were more of them."

"Your last two questions have the same answer," Eirik replied. "The rest I have left back in Skyrim, to protect my family and do what I have been doing since you were gone."

"And what was that?" Crixus asked. He was annoyed that all of the Sons of Skyrim had not come with Eirik.

"Protecting the people of Skyrim," Eirik answered. "Eastmarch and the Reach are in turmoil, with raids from the dark elves and the Forsworn a daily ordeal. We were called to protect Rorikstead from a raid by the Reachmen, and only arrived just in time."

"Uh-huh," Crixus muttered, uninterested in what Eirik had to say. The woes of the Children of the Sky were not his concern.

"What about you?" Eirik asked. "I've taken back the great hall of the Companions. Have you your throne yet?"

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus groaned, looking away to hide his embarrasment.

Eirik chuckled. "Nothing's changed, I see."

"Oh, I don't know," Crixus replied with a grin. "Quite a bit has changed. You've seen the new faces around, haven't you?"

"I recognize your servant," Eirik said. "And the snow elf. And I...yes, there he is! Your Orc Legion friend, I believe. But none of the others."

"You'll get to know them in time," Crixus stated.

"Of course," Eirik replied. "If you don't mind, I would like to know why we've been called here."

"You will know in time," Crixus repeated. "For now, get your people together. I have a little announcement to make."

"Before you do," Eirik said. "There is one here who wants to speak to you." Crixus noticed that Eirik seemed to become even grimmer than before at this statement. He now seemed to be scowling at Crixus, though he said no words. He walked back to the Sons of Skyrim and one whom Crixus had counted among their number, dismounted and approached him. To Crixus' surprise, it was a young woman, roughly the same age as Petruvius: that is to say, between late twenties and early thirties. She was a Nord, and standing almost as tall as he stood. She had long blond hair and blue eyes, which were aimed at Crixus in anger. She was dressed in steel armor, after the fashion of the warriors of Skyrim, but was clad in a fur cloak that wrapped around her upper half. A sword was hanging from her belt as she approached Crixus.

"Servius Crixus," quoth Jordis the Sword-maiden.

"Do I know you?" Crixus replied. He knew who she was, but ever since he had let Idolaf 'punish' her, he always played dumb around her. During the Siege of Volkihar Castle, he had summoned her to the fight, using Rayya to do the summoning and without mentioning his name. She saw him, of a certain, among the host that attacked the castle and he made himself scarce afterwards, not speaking to her at all and going straightway to Solitude.

"Oh, what a sad day it was when the gods cursed your mother with bearing you," Jordis replied, her jaw set in anger but her voice still calm.

"Take that back, b*tch!" Crixus retorted. "I've done nothing to you." He then turned to Eirik. "Take her away. I have nothing to say to her."

"She's not mine to order," Eirik replied. "And she insisted that she come, so she could speak to you." Eirik turned back to Jordis and nodded.

"I bore your insults and taunts," Jordis began. "Because it was my duty to serve you, as huscarls are bound to serve their lords in these days. I begged Jarl Elisif to release me from your service, but every time she denied me. She said that she wanted someone to keep an eye on you for her, seeing as how she was so enamored with you. Then..." Her jaw quivered.

"Then what?" Crixus asked.

"Then you let your friend, Idolaf Battle-Born, have his way with me," Jordis replied angrily. "I went to Jarl Elisif to plead for his arrest, but she would not."

"The noble customs and traditions of the Nords failed you again, eh?" Crixus grinned.

"Elisif was not queen," Jordis replied. "And could not enforce law against one of Balgruuf's citizens. So I returned to Whiterun...and Balgruuf had my case dismissed. Olfrid Battle-Born was too close to him and convinced him to deny me justice. So I went out in search of you, to deliver my own justice. But then you ran like a coward!"

"Look, I have no idea what you're talking about," Crixus dismissed with a chuckle.

"Oh, you're a fine piece of work, by Shor's bones," Jordis replied, shaking her head as her right hand, which was resting on her sword, was quivering violently. "You run about Tamriel, doing whatever you please, with no thought of anyone else, and then, when your past comes catching up with you, you lie and pretend it never happened!"

"Shut up!" Crixus shouted. "Shut the fuck up! You know nothing, white Nord b*tch! Do you hear me? Nothing!"

Several of the Sons of Skyrim drew their weapons, ready to attack Crixus should he speak again. Those of Crixus' company who were knights drew their swords - the weapons ban was not held in Sancre Tor, much to the chagrim of the Emperor, the Elder Council, the House of Nobles and the Placators - and prepared to defend themselves should battle arise. Then the strangest sound erupted from near where Crixus stood, staring into Jordis' steely blue eyes, filled with wrath.

The crying of a baby.

"What the fuck is that?" Crixus asked.

Jordis' eyes were now streaming with tears: not because Crixus had shouted at her, she could take that. There was something else, something which she hadn't told anyone else save for Eirik and his family. When Rayya had summoned her to the Siege of Castle Volkihar, she was concerned in this matter. Upon seeing Crixus there, she remained throughout the battle and afterwards to speak to him and tell him of what had transpired. But, as with that night in the Rift, when the earth shook and the Greybeards summoned the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar, he had fled. Now there was no fleeing, nowhere for him to run. Taking her hands off her sword, she reached back onto where the cloak was wrapped around her back. From afar, it had appeared to be a back-pack. From this she drew a small child, who had fallen asleep during the trek through the Jerall Mountains but was wakened by Crixus' outburst. The babe she held forth to Crixus, with tears now in her eyes.

"This, you bastard!" she replied. "See what your punishment has wrought!"

Crixus' mind made the connection almost immediately. But, as usual, he turned his mind away from the truth and formed what he could to defend himself, anything to make Servius Crixus inculpable.

"How is this my fault?" Crixus asked. "Why don't you take it up with the father?"

"He fled Skyrim like a coward!" Jordis replied. "Just like you!"

"I still fail to see how this is my fault," Crixus returned. "There are ways you could have avoided this."

"Oh, yes, you would suggest that," Jordis replied. "I heard what you did at Karthwasten. Unlike you, I don't kill children! It wasn't her fault, she didn't ask to be born!"

"Well, then, that's your fault," Crixus replied. "If you're stupid enough to carry the child to term, why should I be punished for it?"

Whatever measure of reserve was left in Jordis was gone now. She placed her child in Eirik's hands, then drew out her sword and with a yell charged at Crixus. Petruvius, Estalenya, Garnag and Antilius rose up from behind to defend Crixus, while on the other side, Eirik strode between Crixus and Jordis, the baby still in his arms.

"Jordis, please!" he interjected. "We're not here to start another war!"

"How can you defend him?" she returned. "Even after all I told you?"

"I'm not defending him," Eirik replied. "I'm defending you and your child. Or perhaps you didn't realize that we're outnumbered here?"

"A true warrior does not fear death in battle," Jordis retorted.

"Think of your child!" Eirik pleaded. "She needs you."

In the heat of her wrath, Jordis turned to Eirik and muttered: "How dare you", but she did not turn blade on him. Instead she turned back to Crixus, still panting and heaving in her furious anger.

"Yes, that's right," Crixus sneered. "All that Nord bluster and bravado is worthless. You can't do shite!"

"You're wrong," Jordis replied. "There is one thing I can do." With this, she cried out with a loud voice and broke over her knee the sword in her hand: the two pieces she then tossed at Crixus' feet.

"Servius Crixus," she announced. "For your disregard of the oaths and bonds between thane and huscarl, by leaving me to the mercy of Idolaf of Clan Battle-Born to be his whore, I renounce my place as huscarl to the Thane of Haafingar. As you have broken these bonds, so I have broken my sword, that all here may bear witness that I am no longer your sword and shield. May Stuhn judge whether my cause is worthy and just."

"You can't do this," Crixus retorted. "No, you're my servant. I _own_ you! I'll have Elisif brand you an outlaw throughout all the nine holds! Then I'll have you declared an outlaw in the rest of the Empire. You'll never be able to come within a hundred yards of a city for as long as you live, you turncoat b*tch!"

"So be it," Jordis replied, taking her child from Eirik's arms. With this, she walked back to her horse, placing the baby back in the back-pack crib she wore on her back. Once her baby was secure, she mounted up and rode out of the courtyard, back towards the North Gate.

"Stop her!" Crixus shouted to his knights. "Bring her back!"

"She's not yours anymore," Eirik interjected, standing before Crixus. "If your men move to take her, the Sons of Skyrim will stop them."

"They can try," Crixus retorted with a sneer. "After all, what's a pack of barbarians against knights in shining armor?"

"Six knights against one and twenty Sons of Skyrim?" asked Eirik with a chuckle.

"I have Orcs," Crixus replied, though he did not intend to use them. He had another purpose in mind for them.

"And I have the Voice," Eirik stated. "And unlike you, I'm not afraid to use it."

Here Crixus could not argue, no matter how many times he wanted to tell Eirik that he knew nothing. Crixus did not use the Voice, and in his own experiences with Eirik, he used it quite frequently, even summoning a dragon to carry them over a Falmer-infested canyon in the Forgotten Vale in the Dragontail and Wrothgarian Mountains. But he would not appear weak, not when he had just recently sacrificed one of his own men to prove his strength.

"That's right, b*tch!" he called after Jordis. "Now who's the one running like a coward?"

"Leave her be, Crixus," Eirik said. "She's free now."

"Don't fucking tell _me_ what to do," Crixus retorted. "I at least stand by what I believe in, while you're as inconstant as water."

Eirik chuckled: no one knew what Crixus truly believed in, as it always seemed to change, but no one would ever have cause to accuse Eirik of not standing by his beliefs. "How do you figure?"

"One moment you're between us, begging that b*tch not to start shite because you're outnumbered," Crixus stated. "Then the next, you're ready to take us all on if we tried to stop her."

Eirik chuckled again. "Oh, gods, I forgot how damn critical you can be. Is that what comes from living in a wealthy, cosmopolitan Imperial culture?"

"Just shut the fuck up and answer the question," Crixus retorted.

"In both cases," Eirik explained. "The answer was the same; Jordis' child. If a battle erupted here and now, with her in the center of it, the child would have perished. Then, when she and the child left, I would have fought to my dying breath to defend the only gate that stood between your armed men and her and the child."

Crixus sneered. "Family shite. I thank the Eight and the Lords of Oblivion that I have no family. Makes you weak."

"I disagree," Eirik replied. "I have never found greater strength to carry on in the difficult months between Solitude and now than my family. I would do anything for them."

"Whatever," Crixus rolled his eyes. He then walked over to the steps of the Chapel of Akatosh and ordered Petruvius to blow three blasts on the horn that was used to summon Drogon. Earlier that day, Crixus had told him not to come when he heard three blasts of the trumpet. Two short blasts and one long one were sounded, then all those about turned their eyes to Crixus upon the steps. The Meeting of the Golden Hill had begun.

"Noble knights," he began. "Mages, Council-men, soldiers of the Red Legion, savages from the North, pay heed to the words that I say. For many long months I have operated in secret, keeping my deeds unknown before all. Now the dragon that attacked Chorrol last month and the Elder Council's unjust imprisonment of me have forced my hand. We can go in secret no longer, for now haste is needed. Therefore I will tell you all what purpose I was given by our late Emperor, Titus Mede II."

More than a few people of Crixus' company started at this revelation. The common belief was that the Emperor was indisposed and remained in the White-Gold Tower, permitting the Elder Council to act in his name. Of those who heard this, only one was unmoved. Eirik had heard in whispers of the Emperor's death earlier, but said nothing.

"Yes, I said late," Crixus continued. "The Emperor is dead. He was torn apart by wild Nords while his vessel the Katariah was docked in the bay of the Karth River in Skyrim. I was with him at the final moment, and he gave me one last order before I was sent away, at his command. He..." Crixus lowered his head in cozened sympathy. "...he named me his heir in his final moments. And charged me with a sacred duty to take the Ruby Throne with his blessing."

All were silent as he spoke these words.

"When I was captured," Crixus concluded. "High Chancellor Buteo refused to allow me to vindicate myself, choosing rather to expedite my execution. This is not acceptable. By attempting to execute me, the Emperor's designated heir, he betrays the explicit will of the Emperor. He must be removed! For this cause I have organized you all, that we may bring an end to the unjust and unlawful rule of the High Chancellor."

There was scattered grumbling and nodded heads among those assembled. Only Eirik and the Sons of Skyrim made no response. Though the Firstborn had indeed been assembled, many of them were not satisfied with being here. To them, the Empire were the ones that had betrayed them to the Dominion not once but twice. Eirik was here because he had been summoned, he and the Sons of Skyrim. For his part, he kept quiet until the very last.

"Loath am I," Crixus continued. "To ask you to do more than you have done already, but now I must ask that we leave this place at once, setting our course eastward. We have before us a great task, one that we must accomplish under cover of darkness. Already much time has passed waiting for you, now we must make haste to leave!"

At this, Crixus began barking out orders, having his people prepare themselves for the journey ahead. Only a few torches were to be lit at the front and rear of the company to guide their way. Crixus elected to be the last one out, so that he might hasten the departure. Eirik approached him while he was thus directing those in their preparations for leaving.

"That was a nice speech," Eirik stated.

"Why, thank you," Crixus returned.

"I wonder how much of it was actually true," Eirik suggested.

"What are you saying?" asked Crixus.

"We both know who really killed the Emperor," Eirik replied. "And it wasn't wild Nords. There's no such thing as wild Nords."

"Tell that to Arcadia Valga," Crixus retorted. "Wild Nord clansmen tore the males in her family apart."

"Have you even spent much time around the clans of Skyrim?" asked Eirik.

"Only the respectable ones," Crixus stated.

"Like the Battle-Borns?" Eirik asked. "Who murdered Clan Grey-Mane in a cowardly slaughter, raped Jordis and turned the Companions into the arms of the Thalmor?"

"I don't have to listen to this bull-shite," Crixus dismissed, turning away.

"We both know," Eirik replied. "That a Nord clan would not kill a Colovian noble unless he committed some grave offense against them."

"So you're saying it's her fault her family members died?" Crixus retorted.

"I am saying that her family was not innocent," Eirik stated. "Nor are you."

Crixus chuckled. "Nobody's innocent, you fool. You forget that this is not Skyrim: this is Cyrodiil. You and your men better watch yourselves while you're here. You follow my orders and do everything I order you to do."

"Or what?" Eirik asked. "What empty threats are you going to throw at me now?"

"Not empty," Crixus retorted. "You know I have influence over Elisif, who will soon be High Queen. I can have the Sons of Skyrim disenfranchised with a single letter. You'll be outlaws again, rebels outside of the law. With her as High Queen, she will have power to enforce this rule over all the holds of Skyrim...whatever ones are left under her control, that is. Do you remember how easily your little Ulfric Storm-cunt fell to the might of the Empire? Do you want that to be you?"

Eirik grimaced, upset over what Crixus had said. "You've changed, Crixus."

"Maybe I have?" Crixus retorted. "Spending time with fucking idiots who contradict my every word have forced me to take drastic measures. Pray to whatever heathen gods you believe in that I don't have to take drastic measures against you."

"Watch yourself, Crixus," Eirik stated, rising to his full height. "If you threaten my family, I don't care if the Divines have protected you themselves: I will fucking kill you."

"Is that a threat?" Crixus retorted.

"That's a promise," Eirik replied.

Crixus grimaced in anger. "Get your people together and lead this company out of the city. I don't trust you Nords at my back, not with anyone who worships fucking Hjalti Back-Stabber, Oath-Breaker and murdering father of the Nord scum."

Eirik said no word to Crixus, turning instead to the Sons of Skyrim and ordering them to mount up and take the head of the company. Crixus, meanwhile, remained behind to order the departure. Between the Sons of Skyrim and Crixus' small band the Orc Legion led by Garnag went. Though only a hundred and fifty, they were ordered and well-trained and marched out of Sancre Tor slower than one man or even twenty-one men a-horse. As Gorak was preparing to move his company out, Crixus called for Estalenya and Antilius.

"I want you two," he said. "To go with them. Perhaps your sorcery can keep those ignorant, fearful Nords in line more than threats and harsh language."

"And where will the carriage be?" asked Estalenya.

"In the back," Crixus said. "I will take the rear guard, and as the carriage will be the slowest, I will take it."

"Must I _indeed_ walk?" Estalenya protested. "I am the daughter of Firsthold, not some foot-soldier!"

"Please, Crixus," begged Antilius. "Have mercy on me for my old age."

"Calm down, both of you," spoke Crixus. "I'm not asking you to walk to Bruma. We will make camp soon, since, because of these damn Nords, we started late, after which you will be able to ride in the carriage with me. I need you two at the front more than at the back. Please, for this one march, oblige me this." Reluctantly, the two mages agreed and joined Gorak behind the Sons of Skyrim as they marched out of Sancre Tor.

* * *

Because of the lateness of the hour and the season, the evening came sooner than usual. Crixus ordered the knights and other companions of his to fall in behind the Orc Legions while he came in the carriage at the rear. As soon as Boderic left at the end of the column of knights, Crixus spoke to the carriage drivers.

"Light the lanterns," he said. "And get the horses started. We leave now!"

With that, he climbed up onto the back of the carriage, opened the door and rocked back and forth. With relative ease, he removed his fur cloak and threw it down upon one of the benches, then shut the door and the carriage took off with a jolt. Crixus, however, had not actually climbed into the carriage, but was hanging from the back, his legs bent up and standing on the landing and his head held down, so that no one before him, not even the carriage drivers, could notice that he was outside. After the carriage began to move, Crixus let himself down as quietly as possible and darted towards one of the monasteries of the Ecumenical Primature.

His plan was now in motion.

Haste was now what he needed, speeding softly through the halls of the monastery. As it was evening, most of the monks, priests, chantries and primates were in their cells, meditating and praying. One by one he closed the doors of their cells and barred them with their beams. As soon as he finished, he went to the next hall where the brothers remained and locked them in their cells. Swiftly he moved among the buildings, locking the penitent in their rooms. When he came to the Chapel of Dibella, he heard the giggling of women engaged in their secret Dibellan rituals. He shut his eyes as he locked them inside their parlor: his loins burned for the lack of women that had nothing to do with what he had recently found.

"No," he told himself. "I can find plenty at the Newland Hall in Cheydinhal, which I must come to eventually."

Darkness had fallen when Crixus finally finished locking them all in their rooms. A few he found outside, and these he struck down into unconscious sleep. His purpose done, he went swiftly among them all once more, finding all the hearths, fire-pits, candlesticks, lamps and lanterns he could find. Then with reckless abandon he set everything he could on fire, until each building had a hot and powerful blaze in their midst. To bring his plan to its penultimate stage, Crixus locked the outermost doors of each hall and chapel: even if the holy men somehow got out of their cells, they would not be escaping the fire.

When at last all was in a great blaze, Crixus stood in the center of Sancre Tor, as the Golden Hill was lit with auburn flames. Cries and prayers from the priests, chantries and primates rose up with the flames and smoke. As Crixus gazed up at the Chapel of Akatosh, its spire wreathed in flame, a wolfish smile, very similar to that of Idolaf Battle-Born, crept onto his face. It didn't matter to him that those burning alive within those chapels and monasteries were Colovian or Nibenese: their deaths sated the hunger inside him for a moment.

Sancre Tor was now altogether in flames. Crixus, standing in the midst of it, realized that the blaze could doubtless be seen for miles around. Surely those who had gone on before him would see it by now, and those of keenest eyes would see him coming back down the hill, even through the streets in the shadows of the night.

"Nocturnal, mistress of thieves," Crixus prayed. "You who have never failed me once, hear me now! I, your servant, seek to play the part of the Thief and take the Ruby Throne. This ruse must carry, therefore, I ask that you hide me once again!"

A brief flash of darkness and fluttering ravens appeared, but their darkness could not dispel the light of the infernal blaze. Nevertheless, Crixus was confident that the Agency of Shadow, which had not failed him since that evening in the Twilight Sepulcher, would not fail him again. Therefore he ran from Sancre Tor as fast as his legs could carry him, his way lit by the glow of the fire on the top of the Golden Hill.

Though the hill grew steep and in many places Crixus stumbled and rolled until he hit a stone or tree that stopped, he was only a little bruised on the way down. But down he came, coming at last to a hollow in the woods where the light of torches was glistening. He had told them to march until night came, which he hoped that this would indeed be the camp. As he broke through the trees, he saw their attention turned to the great light on the summit of Sancre Tor. As quietly as he could, despite his wounds, he crept back to the carriage and made his way therein. Here he halted and found what he was looking for: the heavy fur cloak which had been placed there for the express purpose of deceiving those who came calling to believe that he had fallen asleep.

Now inside, he wrapped himself in the cloak and made his way towards the door just as a furious knock was heard on the door of the carriage.

"Who the fuck is it?" he demanded. "I was having a damn good dream! There were four of them, two on each side, one down below and one to lay my head in her bosom. It was amazing!"

"There's fire on the mountain-side!" Eirik spoke from the other side of the door. "How can you sleep at a time like this?"

"Well, excuse me," Crixus retorted. "I was up early this morning, waiting for your arrival." He pushed the door open and climbed out of the carriage, wrapped in his cloak. Eirik pointed towards the hilltop, which stood a blaze in the northern sky.

"Lords of Oblivion!" gasped Crixus in cozened awe. "What happened here?"

"We saw lights just as evening came," Eirik stated. "Then it all went up in a blaze."

"Why didn't you do anything about it?" asked Crixus. "You're the one who worships the Divines. Shouldn't you do something to save their churches from the blaze?"

"We haven't enough water between us to combat the fires," Eirik said. "Even if we emptied all of our water-skins. There are no wells around us, and no buckets to carry water from the little stream to the west. We tried going to see if there was a well in the square, but the flames were too intense!"

"What about you?" Crixus continued. "Don't you have some Shout that could put those flames out?"

"No," Eirik replied.

"Your great crutch has failed you again?" Crixus asked.

"Why don't _you_ do something?" asked Eirik. "You say you have the Voice as well."

"There's nothing we can do for them," Crixus said ruefully, shaking his head. "It's too late for the poor bastards up on that hill. Even if we could quench the flames, the chapels and houses up there are gone. It's best to let the flames burn on and rebuild from the ashes." He then turned to his companions and said: "Let us camp here for the night. In the morning, we march north-east, to the ancient Akaviri stronghold of Cloud Ruler Temple."

* * *

**(AN: Yep, big [and controversial] stuff on the horizon.)**

**(I remember seeing a clip from this Polish-language film set in the 17th century [i don't remember its name or the event it was detailing], but the video - which is no longer on YouTube - had the Swedish army marching all bad-ass onto the field, and the uploader added _Bathory_'s "Revenge of the Blood on Ice" to this portion [particularly the latter part of the song, the slow part that convinced people Quorthon had adopted...doom metal -lol-]. I really had that in mind with the coming of the Sons of Skyrim, just a great Nordic army marching all bad-ass onto the field.)**

**(This also ended up being one of the longest chapters in the story so far [which is saying quite a bit, considering the average chapter length]. I've been reading _The Hobbit_ again and listening to Ed Sheeran's "I See Fire", which you can tell influenced my references to fire as "auburn." I'm not as much a fan as most of you probably are, though i feel like i should be [i always felt that "grunge pop", an acoustic form of popular music, should have its day, which i see in his folk music], and so i started listening to it. [speaking of music, i made a reference to an album by the Norwegian black metal band _Darkthrone, _who were SO insecure in their lack of artistry, they said that anyone who criticizes their music is "a stupid Jew".])**


	42. Fall and Rise

**(AN: Now it's time to raise the ante yet again.)**

**(Yesterday, i was playing _Skyrim_ and that drove me back to reading _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ again, specifically the chapters that dealt with going into the Soul Cairn. Aside from some ridiculous grammatical errors, i realized that i had made what many of you would consider a serious lore error. Serana states that the Soul Trap spell belongs to the Conjuration School rather than the Mysticism School: this is because she spent a fair bit of time learning things in the new age [she had been asleep for four thousand years, and had to catch up], and in the Fourth Era, only a select few still practice Mysticism.)**

**(For those of you who didn't recognize that this is an M-rated story, be warned: bad stuff happens.)**

* * *

**Fall and Rise**

All that evening the group remained in the vale, while Sancre Tor burned above them. Rather than go into hiding in the carriage, Crixus, trying to maintain his lack of culpability, went among his followers. Garnag, Drogon and several Orc sentries kept watch over the camp while the rest sat around a small fire they built. Not out of disrespect for the burning of the Golden Hill, but because the nights were cold and they needed warmth.

"The great Emperor comes to talk with the common fucking people," quoth Viator.

"I'm glad you still find this all amusing," said Crixus, taking a seat beside Petruvius and Lethia.

"I think you owe us a few explanations," Boderic stated.

"I owe nothing to any of you," Crixus replied.

"Why didn't you tell us who you were, cousin?" asked Alcedonia.

"Why the story about being on the Emperor's service?" asked Casmar.

"I _am_ on the Emperor's service," Crixus stated. "I am fulfilling his last command to me. And considering how well I was received by the Elder Council, if I made my intentions clear, I would have been executed long before this."

"And you're telling us all this now why?" asked Viator.

"We have the strength to resist them, now," Crixus replied. "And, well, there is another secret that will be revealed once we reach Cloud Ruler Temple."

"Is that where we're going?" asked Alcedonia. Crixus nodded. "Well, where is that?"

"Within a day's march of Bruma, according to our map," Crixus replied. "But we're still three days out of Bruma. It will take us that amount of time to get there, if we're not waylaid."

"Sir Boderic," Antilius spoke up. "You haven't said anything. Are you alright?"

Boderic was gazing periodically up at the hill, circling himself and muttering prayers that no one could hear. Crixus said nothing, for he was noticing someone approach the fire.

"So, what's at Cloud Ruler Temple?" asked Quintus to those around the fire. "Dony and I have been far, but we've never visited that place in particular."

"It is an Akaviri fortress," Estalenya answered. "One of the few built by the people of the far east when they came through this land. It is rumored that there is another such fortress in the Reach in Skyrim."

"There is," Eirik spoke. He was the one whose approach Crixus had recognized. He was now close enough to hear the words spoken and added his words. "I was there."

Those around the fire turned to see the large Nord who had just approached their fire. Arcadia, of course, turned around with a scowl, uncomfortable around the Nord.

"And who are you, n'wah?" Tiraa spoke up.

"I don't believe you've all been formally introduced," Crixus spoke. "This Nord is Eirik, a barbarian of the North. He has proved his valor in battle and his loyalty to me during the Siege of Solitude, when the Dominion tried to wrest control of Skyrim from us, following our victory against the rebellion."

"A Nord, eh?" Viator asked. "Weren't you the one who hated Nords with a fucking passion?"

"Yes, I do," Crixus replied. "But they're useful."

"I'm right here," Eirik spoke.

"Yes, I know," Crixus returned. "And I have armed guards. So lay down your sword and have a seat. If you want to sit with us, you must do so in peace."

"You asked me to come here," Eirik replied. "Did you really do it merely to mock me?"

"You need to know who you're about to be fighting with," Crixus said. "These are good and honorable people. They will help us take the Throne."

"Is that right?" Eirik asked. With that, he removed his great-sword and thrust it into the ground, then looked for a seat. None of those seated offered to move over and give him a seat: even Boderic was busy gazing up at the fires upon the Golden Hill. So it was that Eirik sat behind Crixus, the shadows keeping him from the heat of the fire.

"No need to worry you, though, right?" Crixus asked. "You Nords are immune to the cold, unlike us normal folk."

Eirik scowled but said nothing. Crixus then went around the fire and introduced Eirik to everyone. Petruvius and Lethia he knew already, and Arcadia had left the camp-fire. Casmar was friendliest of them, as he had no qualms against Nords. Most of the others said little, or had disparaging side-remarks to make. The one who made most of them, apart from Crixus, was Tiraa.

"So, _n'wah_," she said. "How many of my people have you killed, hmm? I'll wager you keep my people as _n'wahs_ back in your cities. Do you only go after men, or are women, children and elders worthy of your ire as well?"

"What are you even talking about?" asked Eirik.

"If you knew, you shouldn't need me to tell you," quoth Tiraa. "And if you need me to tell you, you're obviously too blind to see it, _n'wah_."

"What...I don't even know what that means!"

"_My_ people!" Tiraa retorted. "There are quite a few loyalists of House Hlaalu living in Skyrim, who fled the persecution we suffered after our House was demoted. Why are we being delegated to the slums of your cities? We deserve to live in mansions much greater than the mud-huts and barns you _n'wahs_ live in. We deserve to live wherever we want in your land, as free and independent mer."

"Free-loaders, you mean," Eirik replied.

"We don't owe anyone anything!" Tiraa snapped. "You n'wahs owe us! You owe us food, shelter, security, equality and political recognition appropriate to our status and position."

"We work for what we have in Skyrim," Eirik stated. "Nothing's for free."

"Well, it better be for my people," Tiraa returned. "We deserve your land whenever we want it. By the New Tribunal, I might loathe the Sarys family for their...affiliations, but they're right! You _n'wahs_ need to be taught a lesson."

"Is that why Athal Sarys terrorizes Eastmarch?" Eirik asked. "Because he believes as you do, that Nords owe the Dunmer whatever they want?"

"Hmm, you _n'wahs_ are the real terrorists," Tiraa stated. "We're merely retaliating in defense of our way of life."

"Families in the east are being torn from their homes," Eirik replied. "Hundreds of innocents are being butchered every day. Houses are burned, forests burned, lifestock killed and left to rot! And you say it's your way of life that is being threatened?"

"Oh, I really feel sorry for you, pitiful _n'wah_," mocked Tiraa. "Why don't you fill me a cup full of your _n'wah_ tears so I can drink them and pity you even more?"

"Where did you find this ungodly woman?" Eirik asked Crixus. "She reminds me of you." Crixus only laughed merrily at his words.

"There's no need for insults, _n'wah_!" Tiraa retorted. "I haven't done anything to you!"

"Yes, you have!" Eirik stated angrily. "You mock the suffering of my people and the destruction of our way of life..."

"Oh, well," Tiraa groaned. "There's just no reasoning with a bigoted _n'wah_, is there?"

"Enough talk!" Viator spoke, rising up from his seat. "I want to see some fighting."

"Haven't you had enough?" Crixus spoke up. Viator was drinking deeply from a private keg he had stolen from the monastery in Sancre Tor before they left.

"I've heard what you Nords can do," Viator said. "Though, to be honest, I've also seen our minotaur here rip the arms off a Nord with his bare fucking hands."

"I've slain dragons," Eirik stated. "Which could have devoured your minotaur with ease."

"Bull-shite," Viator returned. "I wanna see that strength of yours."

"Not now!" Crixus interjected. "We'll not be starting any fights until the real battle begins."

"And when will the real battle begin?" Viator asked. "I haven't had anything real to kill in far too long."

"It will begin when I say it begins," Crixus spoke. "For now, let us enjoy the time of peace while it lasts."

"Peace? Heh!" Viator mumbled. "I'd watch your swords if I was all of you, though. Nords wouldn't know peace if it came up behind 'em and fucked 'em in the arse!"

"And what does that mean, sir?" Eirik asked.

"Well, weren't you Nords responsible for that little rebellion that happened early last year?" asked Viator. "It's in your blood, right? To rebel against everyone and everything." Several of those gathered here laughed. Eirik scowled as he looked among them. Boderic was not laughing, and neither was Lady Estalenya. But he could not get any words out of the knight and the Altmer he did not trust.

"My lord," Petruvius spoke up. "Never said that Eirik here was part of the rebellion."

"He's a Nord, ain't he?" asked Viator. "They're all the same, right? Just because he ain't beatin' his chest and yellin' 'Skyrim for the Nords' don't make him not a rebel." Others chuckled or muttered their agreement. Eirik, meanwhile, looked over at Crixus, who shrugged but did not forbear them.

"Talos take you all," Eirik muttered, rising from his seat and turning to his sword. Viator was trying unsuccessfully to remove the sword from the dirt. Eirik approached and with one hand removed the sword, leaned the blade against his shoulder and walked back to the camp of the Sons of Skyrim.

"Petruvius," Crixus spoke up as Eirik was leaving. "Set up my tent. Estalenya, Antilius: you have the carriage all to your own. I prefer to sleep someplace...comfortable for the nights ahead." As his servant went to prepare the tent, Crixus followed Eirik. He did not immediately return to the camp of the Sons of Skyrim, but went to its outskirts, where he gazed long and hard into the darkness.

"Why am I here?" Eirik asked. "To be sport for your 'honorable' knights over there?"

"Look, you lived here in Cyrodiil, right?" Crixus asked. "You told me you lived in Bruma once, right? This should be a homecoming for you! But nevertheless, you should know how civilized folk talk. Imperials aren't as blunt and forward as you people."

"You're dishonest," Eirik clarified. "We both know what really happened. Why are you putting the blame on Nords?"

"Oh, come now," Crixus dismissed. "I've heard the idle talk in the streets of the cities of Cyrodiil. The people blame you Nords for everything: what is the death of one person more, compared to the thousands your people slaughter every day?"

"Your beloved Emperor, for one," Eirik stated. "Does your loyalty to him mean nothing?"

"Don't you fucking talk to me about loyalty, you traitor!" Crixus seethed.

"I protect my homeland," Eirik reasoned. "While you put a knife in the Emperor's back, and somehow _I'm_ the traitor?"

"You know nothing of this matter!" Crixus retorted.

"Then enlighten me!" Eirik returned. "Why am I here? Why are the Sons of Skyrim here? Are we were to be mocked, derided, ridiculed and blamed until we're brought to stink in the nostrils of Cyrodiil as much as Idolaf made the Companions to stink in the nostrils of the people of Whiterun?"

"You'll know in due time," Crixus stated. "Or do you intend to be as critical of me as you say I am of you?"

Eirik said nothing, but turned around and walked over to the small camp-fire around which his people sat. While he was taking a seat, Crixus listened as Eirik and one of his companions, the one named Ralof, spoke to him.

"What are we even doing here, kinsman?" asked Ralof. "We shouldn't be here, siding with the Empire of all people!"

"You were free to refuse the summons," Eirik replied. "You all were."

"The hell that any of us would refuse the opportunity to fight alongside you," Falke Four-Fingers, a member of the Firstborn of the Sons of Skyrim who was of Viator's temperament, interjected boldly.

"They're the ones as betrayed us to the Thalmor," Ralof replied. "Why are we fighting _with_ them?"

"To fulfill an oath I made," Eirik replied. He then sighed heavily. "And...he told me that he had changed. I honestly wanted to believe him, that evening as we watched the pyres burn in Solitude."

"That's certainly well and good enough for you," Ralof said. "But what about the rest of us?"

"You may leave if you wish," Eirik stated. "I won't stop you or hold it against you or cast you out if you choose to leave. And if this continues any further, I will personally lead you all back to Skyrim."

Crixus turned away, feeling rotten inside. All throughout his time back in Cyrodiil, he had mocked and derided Eirik and his people relentlessly. Now he heard that, in contrast, Eirik wanted to be at peace with him. He shut his eyes and hardened his lower jaw.

"You shouldn't have said that," Crixus muttered over his shoulder into the wind, then walked back to his tent.

* * *

In the morning, the company rose and ate from what supplies they had. As they had left in a hurry, the priests at Sancre Tor had not given them any supplies. The Orc Legion and the Sons of Skyrim had supplies of their own, and Crixus' companions had enough to last them as far as Bruma, but little else. If they were not waylaid, they might be able to reach Cloud Ruler Temple in three days time.

Three hours after dawn, they gathered up everything they had, took down their tents, and were ready to leave the little snow-clad bole. At a word from Crixus, the company headed out, going steadily north-east up the side of the hill. The going was slow, as they were not traveling up the road. To their right, the rest of the hill-country of the Colovian Highlands rolled away in red, gold and brown hues. To their left, black smoke rose in great plumes over the Golden Hill. The fires had died down that night, but the smoke still showed where the blaze had taken place.

While they were leaving, Crixus, who was riding on Petruvius' horse to oversee the company - he and Lethia were in the carriage with Antilius and Estalenya - saw one horse remaining at the rear. It was Boderic.

"Fall in line, soldier," Crixus spoke. Boderic did not respond. "Hey, did you hear me?"

All night Boderic had been silent, gazing up in sorrow at the flaming Golden Hill. At last, he turned his horse around to Crixus and spoke.

"This was the most sacred place for the Faith of the Nine," he said. "I had hoped that, one day, in a time of peace, I might come here and meditate on what the Divines have called me to do." He looked at Crixus in sorrow. "Over a hundred and eighty years it has stood on Sancre Tor. What kind of barbarian would destroy a holy place, so sacred and antique?"

Crixus did not like the look in Boderic's eyes. There appeared a knowing sadness, as if Boderic knew, or guessed at the very least, that Crixus, who was often criticizing anyone who trusted in the Eight and One, had something to do with the destruction of the Ecumenical Primature on the Golden Hill.

"Why are you asking me?" Crixus replied. "I was asleep after we left. Weary from staying up all morning, waiting on the fucking Sons of Skyrim."

"So you say," Boderic said. "Yet I doubt not that, in your heart, you felt some satisfaction, at seeing the holiest place of the Nine Divines burned to ashes."

"I feel no satisfaction," Crixus lied. "Over the destruction of a few old buildings dedicated to false, impotent gods. It is nothing to me. Now fall in line, soldier. We have a long road ahead of us."

Boderic said nothing as he turned his horse to follow Crixus and the company on their road.

A few hours passed until they found themselves upon a road at the very edge of the coldest regions of the Highlands. A spectacular view appeared before their eyes. On the one hand the cold ground was sparsely covered in patches of snow and a clean air blew down from the mountains. On the other hand, rolling in gold, red and brown shades the lower hill country stretched on below the sloping hills. In fact, this was the most pleasant part of all of Crixus' journey through Cyrodiil. Nevertheless, he was grumpy due to cold and how long he had been denied sex and beer.

As the day wore on, they followed along the road until it came to the brink of a cliff. The main path continued back into the mountains, while a stone bridge forded the precipice and led to another path on the other side of the chasm. By now the evening was along its way, and Crixus had them barricade the bridge. One half of their group made camp on the eastern side and the other half made camp on the western side. This was done according to Crixus' orders.

"The chasm isn't very wide," he said. "And since we're on the borders of little Skyrim, we might have threats of attacks. We will need an early warning on the eastern side, especially if we're attacked."

The two companies began setting up their tents, while Crixus sat in his tent, pouring over Petruvius' map of Cyrodiil. He was particularly looking over the county of Bruma and its various landmarks. He wanted to know how secluded Cloud Ruler Temple was as well as how rugged the land around the town was. For the first time since coming to Cyrodiil, Crixus had a plan. On the road from the Imperial City to Chorrol, Crixus had thought long and hard about what must be done in the silence of the carriage rides. He now needed to inact his plan, to send a clear message to everyone involved: the Nords as well as the High Chancellor.

Behind him, the tent flap opened. Looking up, he saw Eirik walking into the tent.

"Why are you here?" Crixus asked.

"I've been asking myself the very same question," Eirik replied.

"I told you all where we're going," Crixus explained. "The Blades have been reformed, they're reorganizing. With them at our side, the Ruby Throne is already mine. Orcs, mages, Nords, the Blades and knights in shining armor: the best of the best."

"My people are eager to be home, Crixus," Eirik said. "How much longer is this going to take?"

"What's the matter?" Crixus asked. "Tiring of the company of civilized folk?"

"Every minute your servants harass my people," Eirik replied. "We keep to ourselves, but some of you come after us."

"Some?" Crixus asked. "Who?"

"The Dunmer battle-mage," Eirik began. "Arcadia, Viator and the snow elf."

Crixus chuckled. "What's the matter? You can't take a little criticism?"

"You certainly can't," Eirik returned.

"That's different," Crixus stated. "I'm your leader. I don't deserve to be critiqued, not after all I've been through, all that I know and all that I've learned. By the webs of Mephala, whatever happened to respecting your fucking elders?"

"So now you're an elder?" Eirik asked. "You don't look that old."

"I'm forty-six, Eirik," Crixus replied. "Four more years, I'm already an elder."

"You certainly don't show it," Eirik noted.

"I know," Crixus sighed. "It's...an old curse."

"A curse?" Eirik asked. "To be youthful for all this time, unwearied, that's certainly a blessing."

"Not when it comes to the daedra," Crixus stated. "I know for a fact that I was placed under a daedra's curse, the curse of Clavicus Vile."

"A terrible one, he, so I've heard," Eirik replied. "Offers great boons, but with hidden stipulations."

"Exactly," Crixus stated. "And I've yet to see what stipulation I have over me. But this is not important: what's important is fucking respect!"

"You think you're owed respect because of all the things you've seen?" Eirik asked.

"Of course I deserve respect!" Crixus retorted. "How many times have you died, Eirik, huh? You tell me! I've been killed and survived death. I have experience in the Red Legions, fighting during the Great War. I have experience in administration, as prefect of Mournhold. I demand to be respected!"

"I've done great things also, Crixus," Eirik began. "I've stood in the Hall of Shor in Sovngarde, crossed the Soul Cairn and the planes of Oblivion. I've slain Alduin, the World-Eater, and countless dragons besides. And all of that is nothing to everyone I meet. To them, I'm just a man with a sword. It's my choice whether to ignore them or help them. I didn't enter the Companions, demanding their respect. In fact, I lost their respect after your Battle-Born friends slaughtered Clan Grey-Mane and took the Companions under their control. And through my own actions I've won back their respect. No one is owed respect, we earn respect."

"So you tell me to kiss their arses just to get the respect I deserve?" Crixus asked. He then scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm above all that. Now, is there any real reason you're here?"

"What happened to your gear?" Eirik asked. "You're usually much more prepared than this."

"I was fucking incarcerated," Crixus replied. "Or maybe you didn't remember when I fucking told that to everyone?"

"If there's anything I can do to help," Eirik offered.

"I don't need your help," Crixus stated.

"For old times' sake," Eirik added.

"Not unless you're a lusty maid with beer tucked away somewhere," Crixus stated. "Then I don't think there's much you can do to help."

Eirik chuckled. "Nothing's changed."

"There aren't enough b*tches to fuck around here," Crixus groaned. "Fuck, if Mehrunes Dagon himself came down and offered me tits and beer in exchange for an eternity of servitude to the lord of destruction, I'd take it in a heart-beat!"

"It's not wise to jest on such things," Eirik said, his cheerful expression darkening. "We both know what the daedra are. What they stand for: the violent overthrow of freedom of will. How can you speak of them in jest like this?"

"I don't fear anything anymore," Crixus stated. "Or perhaps you didn't remember how I said that I fucking beat death?"

"It's not wise to tempt fate," Eirik replied, holding up his right hand. "I know this all too well."

"So what?" Crixus asked. "Your fucking hand makes you an equal to me?" He scoffed. "You are so fucking pathetic."

"Crixus..."

"Full of shite!" Crixus retorted.

"Then why am I here?" Eirik retorted. "Orcs, mages, Blades, knights: what purpose do I serve?"

"You and your men are essential," Crixus replied. "So shut the fuck up and do as you're told!"

Eirik frowned. "I hoped you had changed after the Siege of Solitude. I see now that I was mistaken." He walked towards the tent's door, then turned around.

"I remember what you did for me, Crixus," he said. "When we rescued Mjoll from Tarvis. I haven't forgotten that, and because of it, I'll remain here to help you. But if your people continue to treat my people like shit, I can't guarantee that they'll remain to fight for you."

"You _will_ guarantee that," Crixus replied. "Or I'll have you outlawed in your own land."

"Because of your actions," Eirik continued. "After I've fulfilled my obligation to you, I will no longer owe you anything."

"Will you swear that?" Crixus asked.

"What?" Eirik returned, surprised at Crixus' words.

"Swear to me now," Crixus said. "On your own life, that you will remain here and fight for me until I have taken my rightful throne. You and the Sons of Skyrim."

"Crixus..."

"Pledge me a blood-oath," Crixus replied. "That's what you people hold sacred, right? I want your solemn oath, something that means something to you. Something you can't go back on."

"Why?" Eirik returned. "So you can treat me like shit all you want and hold this oath over my head to keep me as your slave?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Eirik," Crixus returned. "There's no slavery in the Empire. Now, maybe if Ulfric had won, the Dunmer would certainly be slaves to your precious little Skyrim."

"How long are you going to continue preaching that lie?" asked Eirik.

"Until you come to realize that it's the truth," Crixus returned. "But all that I'm asking right now is a political arrangement: you and your men will help me, and in return, I will let you return to Skyrim free and unmolested after I have the Ruby Throne."

"And what are the conditions of refusal?" Eirik asked.

"If you refuse, your life will be forfeit," Crixus returned.

"And if you fail to uphold your end of the bargain?"

"Oh, I don't think that will be a problem," replied Crixus. "You see, unlike you Nords, Imperials actually keep the promises we make."

"A Nord's honor is above reproach," Eirik stated through clenched teeth.

"Spare me," Crixus returned. "We both know you Nords value honor as little as you value life."

"Then you've already answered for me," Eirik returned. Without another word, he left the tent, leaving Crixus to fume and pound his fist on the table where his map lay. His plan was slipping out of his hands even as he stretched them forth to carry it out: he was being denied yet again.

* * *

The night passed without incident: not even ogres came down from the mountains to harass their camp. Once again they packed up and headed on their way. The path carried on deeper into the snows, until it seemed as though autumn would be forgotten. The wind blew down heavily from the mountains, forewarning of the hard winter still to come. The overcast sky was now dark with the threat of either rain or snow, and behind the smoke from Sancre Tor had disappeared from their view. But all that morning, there was no assault from the skies. Meanwhile, the four mages Crixus had in his command were now riding in the carriage. Crixus now rode on Tiraa's horse - guar did not live this far in the highland country - on the side of the carriage. But this gave him no peace, and Tiraa would frequently poke her head out of the windows and annoy him with questions.

"Are we there yet?" she asked.

"We'll be there by tomorrow," Crixus answered.

"Will there be food there?" Tiraa asked. "Proper food, not your human shite."

"Not likely," Crixus returned.

"When will we rest?"

"Later."

This went on for many long hours, until Crixus was getting rather annoyed. As the hour of noon was coming, she asked him a question which had been on his mind as well.

"Shouldn't we have seen your friend by now?" she asked. "The thief, the one you sent to retrieve the guild charter?"

Crixus sighed. It was true, Aelina had not yet returned from her venture to the Imperial City. The fact that he remembered her name also bothered him. True, she might be spending the day in her safe-house; then again, she might have been caught and now held in the Imperial Bastion. The thought of her undergoing the tortures he went made Crixus upset. She had been the one person to unequivocally and consistently speak and act kindly to him. Furthermore, he was intrigued by her cheeky behavior. The last time they had spoken, she seemed to be in good spirits.

"I wish I knew," he sighed.

"Well, I hope she gets here soon," Tiraa stated. "Or you won't have any legitimate Mages Guild."

Just then, there was a loud rumbling and the horses started pawing nervously at the ground. All eyes turned towards the snowy hills around the road. A battle-cry was suddenly heard.

"To arms!" Crixus shouted. "Defend the horses!"

From out of the snow, armed bandits charged at the company. Orcs, knights and Sons of Skyrim drew their weapons and cried cheers of challenge. The Orc cohorts and the Sons of Skyrim prepared a shield wall, against which many of the bandits broke upon, halting their charge. As the bandits came to a halt, some were thrown over the shield wall behind the line of the Orcs. Many of these were cut down almost instantly, but some managed to escape. Taking the reins of the Orc Legion's supply horses, they ran off the road with their quarry as fast as they could.

"Protect the horses!" Crixus returned.

But the knights did not obey him. Led by Casmar and Boderic, they rode around to the back of the bandit's attack on the shield wall and began cutting them down. Now the bandits were getting desperate. More and more were throwing themselves over the wall of the Legion's shields. Through sheer volume, they were getting through. More and more supply horses were being nabbed, faster than they could be recovered.

"Fly!" a captain of the bandits cried out. "Fall back!"

With that, they broke ranks and scattered into the woods, heedless of their fallen. The assault was over almost as soon as it had begun. Crixus held the Legions and knights back from a pursuit: the bandits were now in their land and the likelihood of being waylaid due to pursuing them was great. They had to reach Cloud Ruler Temple by tomorrow, as Crixus had promised Delphine.

Of the assault, fifty bandits had been slain and another six were wounded and left by their comrades. The Orc Legions were wounded but alive, and the knights were now shivering in their suits of armor. Save for Arcadia, who only wore a breast-plate, vambraces and gauntlets, the other knights had all worked up a sweat in their heavy armor suits. The cold wind now made them shiver as they removed their helmets to take in air or relieve themselves of the heat.

"Fuck me!" Viator grumbled. "I thought it'd be a welcome change, getting out of the heat, boiling in this suit of armor. Now I feel like I'm buried in an icy tomb."

The Sons of Skyrim were used to this kind of weather, and none of them had taken any wound more serious than a few bruises. The worst part of the attack were the supply horses: more than half had been stolen by the bandits and Crixus was now nervous.

"Those horses," he said. "Had food and shelter for the Orc Legions. Without them, we won't be able to reach Cloud Ruler Temple by tomorrow."

"These bandits must have been desperate," Eirik added as he walked beside Crixus, examining the blood-stained snow-fields where the battle had taken place. "To attack an armed convoy."

"Well, winter will soon be here," Crixus replied. "Driven to such lengths, anyone would try something stupid. My guess is that they were under-supplied, which is why they risked attacking us: their goal were the supply horses."

"So what do we do?" Eirik asked.

"There is a farming community in the little town of Applewatch outside of Bruma," Crixus stated. "We may be able to get there and broker a deal on food stuffs."

The bandits they left lying on the side of the road, as they gathered themselves together and continued eastward, along the winding mountain path to the village of Applewatch.

* * *

The day was almost spent by the time they reached Applewatch. Two hundred years ago, it was nothing but a little farmstead owned by a Nibenese family. Now, however, it had grown into a small community of farms, most of them owned by Colovian and Nibenese families. In the county of Bruma, Nords were not permitted to hold any occupation beyond tilling the soil or herding lifestock, for Count Edvald feared that other tasks might bring inequality among the people of Cyrodiil and the Nords. Being slaves in all but name, the Nords that had enjoyed compulsory attendance at the Bruma University now were consigned to the cold fields.

As the company arrived on the outskirts of Applewatch, they saw Imperial soldiers in the garb of the Red Legion milling about in the center of town. Crixus called for a halt, then brought Petruvius and Gorak forth and rode out into the center of town to meet them.

"Halt!" the Imperial soldier cried, upon seeing the newcomers. "What business brings you to Applewatch?"

"I am a legate of the Red Legions," Crixus replied. "I am on my way to Bruma by way of the old Blades fort north of here."

"Legate, eh?" the soldier asked, taunting Crixus. "Where's your uniform, sir?"

"I am in uniform," Gorak retorted.

"And who are you, Orc?" the soldier returned.

"Gorak gro-Shagk," he replied. "Commander of the 37th Orsinium cohort."

"We ain't had no news that our numbers were passing through here," he said. "I'll have to send a message to General Tullius."

"General Tullius is here?" Crixus asked. "He hasn't gone up to the Imperial City?"

"That he hasn't, 'legate,'" the soldier retorted. "The Count has asked him to remain in Bruma to keep the peace. The locals are gettin' uppity of late: then again, when are Nords not uppity?"

"I hear that," Crixus chuckled. "Very well, send a message to General Tullius. He will confirm who I am."

"Is that so?" the soldier asked. "Very well, then. We'll send a message to the General at once. For the present..."

"For the present," Crixus interjected. "We are quartering our troops in this town. We were attacked on the road here and lost many supplies."

"Well, this ain't Skyrim, 'legate,'" the soldier returned. "There won't be no problem from the locals in that matter. If they give you trouble, just report it to me. Move along, now."

Within a few minutes, Crixus' company had moved into the town of Applewatch. The townsfolk had no choice but to permit the one hundred and eighty-five to be quartered in their houses. Trouble did not arise until the Sons of Skyrim came to the houses. Several older Nibenese men approached the captain of the town guard, who presented them to Crixus.

"It seems there's a bit of a problem here, 'legate,'" he said.

"And what is that, soldier?" Crixus returned.

"Tell 'im," the captain said to the old man.

"We ain't lettin' these barbarians into our houses!" the old man said. "They ain't Legion and we ain't under no obligation to house them! They can sleep in the barn with the pigs, same as the servants, but they ain't comin' into our houses!"

"Very well," Crixus returned. "I'll make sure they know."

Needless to say, none of the Sons of Skyrim were very pleased with this arrangement. In the end, however, neither house nor barn proved to be enough. Every house was filled and the Sons of Skyrim were gathered, seven to a barn, but even still many had to sleep outside in their tents. As if that were not bad news enough, things became very ugly when it was discovered that the Applewatch granaries and store-houses were nigh on to empty. There had been little rain and the bitter chill of autumn struck in Last Seed, and the crop was mediocre at best.

"My army needs to eat," Crixus demanded.

"But, sir," one of the elders of the town spoke. "There's not enough food to feed them all! We..."

"I know what you've been through," Crixus stated. "But that doesn't change the facts! Do you want me to tell the Count that you've violated Imperial law by refusing the Legion's right to quarter troops?"

"N-No! Never!" the old man replied. "We would never presume to..."

"Then you will give us what you have," Crixus returned.

Even after they had pillaged every pantry and store-room of each house, there was not enough food to feed even one hundred and sixty-four. By Crixus' instructions, no food was to be given to the Sons of Skyrim, whether from the granaries or from the houses. He also gave instructions that any mead or spirits found in their houses should be brought at once to him and to him only.

* * *

That evening, most of the others had gone to sleep. Around the camp-fire in the center of the village, however, Crixus' knights huddled together for warmth. Viator and Arcadia were especially quiet and neither of them as much as looked at Crixus; if he chanced to look at them, they would quickly avert their eyes or frown. Crixus, however, was sitting with Petruvius and Lethia.

"I'm pleased, sir," Petruvius spoke.

"How so?" Crixus asked.

"Well, we're moving faster than we were before," he explained. "It feels like we're actually doing something."

"Yes," Crixus returned. "We are very near to our goal. Once we have with us a group of mages and the support of the Count of Bruma, the other three counties will quickly submit once we take the Ruby Throne."

"Only three, sir?" Petruvius asked. "What about Anvil? With Countess Maro dead..."

"Don't remind me," Crixus said.

"Nevertheless, sir," he continued. "We can't count on the support of whoever rules Anvil now, sir."

"Does that matter?" Crixus asked. "We still hae the support of Count Platorius, Count Hassildor and Count Fraseric. Very soon we will be dead even, and then..." He chuckled. "Well, with the armed might that we now have, it will be a little thing to bring the other counties into line."

"I hope that is so, sir," Petruvius nodded.

"And what about you two, huh?" Crixus asked. "I've noticed you've been getting closer lately. How exactly did this happen?"

"Who I share my time with," Lethia replied. "Is no one's concern but my own."

"What will you do once we've won?" Crixus asked. "I don't know if I can be parted from my trusty squire."

"I've given it quite a bit of thought," Lethia stated. "I think that I would like to return to Skyrim, to the Chantry of Auri-El. Then, I am not sure. Perhaps I will find a little cottage to live in somewhere in the cold, and study the magical arts."

"Which arts in particular?" Tiraa asked, joining the trio from behind, taking a seat next to Crixus.

"What comes naturally," Lethia replied. "Using ice to protect myself and destroy my enemies."

"Ah, a Destruction witch," Tiraa stated. "A fine school, to be sure. And now, if I may steal Crixus' attention for a few moments..."

"Yes?" Crixus asked, turning to Tiraa. "What is it you want?"

"After your little announcement," Tiraa stated. "I've been talking to some of your knights. Apparently you've been reforming the knightly orders as well as our new Mages Guild."

"Yes, that's true," Crixus nodded. "We will need their help as well."

"As I recall," Tiraa stated. "There was a knightly order that protected the Mages Guild in times of old, the Knights of the Lamp. Since we're on the rise again, I would to also reform the Order of the Lamp to serve as the protectorate of our new Mages Guild."

"Who do you have in mind to head this new order?" Crixus asked.

"Why, myself, of course!" she returned. "Did you think the only thing I ever did was study Mysticism? I can cast a few useful Destruction spells without having to think long about it, and I do have a sword." At this, she presented Crixus with a most peculiar sword. It was made of some kind of black metal that glistened red in the fire-light: both the pommel and hilt were fashioned at odd angles and the blade itself had many teeth on one edge and a sharpened edge on the other.

"What is this?" Crixus asked.

"A daedric short-sword," Tiraa replied, an intense hunger in her red eyes. "I took it off a dremora I encountered in my travels."

"Wouldn't that anger the ones you serve?" Crixus asked.

"I serve the good daedra," Tiraa explained. "Azura, prince of morning, Mephala, prince of lies and Boethiah, prince of murder plots. The ones you want to watch out for, though, are the Four Corners of the House of Troubles." She looked around at the Orcs milling about their tents around them.

"I am afraid for you, Crixus," she said. "You openly fraternize with the bastards of Orkey. Such actions are sure to bring trouble upon you."

"I don't need your fears or worries," Crixus returned. "The Orcs are necessary for what will soon transpire, and I fear nothing. The Divines are a myth and the daedra cannot harm me: I am the one who has faced death and lived to tell of it."

"Even so," Tiraa muttered. "I would caution you not to meddle in the affairs of the House of Troubles. No good can come of it."

Crixus chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind. Now, then, do you still want to be a knight of the Lamp, or whatever?"

"Yes, yes! Of course!" Tiraa returned.

Crixus rose up, then reached for his sword upon his hip. There was no sword there. Petruvius, immediately seeing his master's situation, offered him his sword, which Crixus took, then held up before Tiraa, who took a knee in the Colovian fashion.

"Tiraa Vilenis," Crixus stated. "Do you solemnly swear fealty to me, to protect and serve the Mages Guild that shall soon be with all the wisdom, knowledge and power at your disposal?"

"By the saints and the Reclaimed Tribunal," Tiraa returned. "I will swear it."

Crixus then tapped the sword upon each of her shoulders, then gave the sword back to Petruvius. "Arise, Tiraa Vilenis, Knight of the Lamp."

Tiraa nodded as she rose, her daedric sword in her hands as she departed. Crixus then returned to his seat with Petruvius and Lethia and continued talking. This went on for many hours, until the winds became bitter cold even in the center of the town. There was a hint of snowfall in the air that night. Crixus bad Petruvius and Lethia goodnight, then retired to his tent as they went to their own. Loath had he been to take a tent, but as the Orc cohort started filling up the village houses, he realized that there would soon not be enough room for him and, reluctantly, chose a place for himself and his tent in the village square.

Crixus stayed awake for many hours. The Night Mother hadn't spoken to him in a while, nor had he received any visitations from the Divines or dreams and visions from Miraak. Nonetheless, sleep escaped Crixus as he sat down and drank some of the mead that had been pillaged from the villagers. To his surprise, it was Black-Briar mead. He knew that Maven Black-Briar's renowned mead had gotten around, but just how far he was not aware.

As he remained, he heard the tent-flap pushed open. He looked thither and, to his surprise, saw the one person whom he had missed from the company. Aelina Cantilius standing in the doorway, clad as Crixus remembered her: all in black. She did not wear the Cowl of the Grey Fox, or else he would not have recognized her. Crixus tried to find words to say, but they all failed him. How did she know where to find him? He had told her Bruma, but how had she come here to Applewatch instead of straight to Bruma?

"I was afraid you were captured," Crixus finally spoke. She said nothing but took a step closer to him. "Uh, foolish of me, I know. No one can ever catch the Grey F..."

Aelina removed her cloak and let it fall to the ground. Then each of her black gloves were removed and tossed to the ground. Then, as elegantly as a bird, her feet stepped out of her boots, leaving them on the ground. She was now come up near to him, a smile on her face.

"It's good to see you alive," Crixus continued. "Do you have it?"

Aelina made no answer, but removed her black leather jerkin and let it fall to the ground. To Crixus' surprise, she had no linen bindings about her breasts, though these were small enough that they barely needed any. Now she stood before him, glistening pale in the light of the candle upon the little wooden table where he left the map.

"Aelina, what are you d..." he began, but she pressed one finger to his lips.

"Shh," she said.

Then, before Crixus could utter another word, she was on her knees, removing his own trousers and sucking him off. Her soft, warm lips greedily devoured him, all the way to the base of his groin. Crixus gasped, his knees weakening. It felt as though he had never had any woman suck his cock in like manner for all of his long years. His legs buckled and he fell backwards, onto his bed-roll. Hungrily Aelina returned to his lap, burying her face in him. Crixus could scarce control himself: it felt so good to be serviced after so many long, lonely months.

Aelina's arms reached up and began removing Crixus' shirt, tearing it off with strength Crixus could not believe for one her size. Once it was fully removed, she lifted her head with a loud gasp, panting heavily as her hands slithered down to her hips.

"I've seen the way you look at me," she spoke. The voice was her voice and, from the warmth of her body around his knees, she certainly was here. "You want to take your fill of me, don't you?" Her hands removed her leather trousers, then stretched herself over Crixus and licked his lips.

"Well, then," she egged. "Take your fill. Show me your fabled strength."

She mounted him with a gentle gasp, her thighs pinning his legs down onto the bed and her fingers scraping over his chest. If Crixus had any sense to wonder beyond the euphoria of his lusts, he would have been surprised at the behavior of this Count's daughter. She moved as if she knew exactly what to do to give him the utmost pleasure.

"Come now," she teased, digging her nails into his bare chest. "Don't make me do all the work."

Crixus grunted, seizing her waist and throwing her down onto the bed to his right. She moaned at his exertion of strength, then entwined herself upon him like a snake: her right thigh wrapped around his hips, her left hand slithered around his neck, seizing the back of his head, while her right hand dug its nails into his back. In response, Crixus buried his right hand in her raven hair and teased her small breasts with his left, pushing into her burning thighs with all of his strength. The harder he pushed, the more she moaned and the tighter she gripped. With anyone else, the ordeal would have been a mere rehearsal of long-remembered moves and technique. But with her, every move felt new and meaningful, as if he had never truly known sex until in her arms. He wondered if her mother truly was, in fact, his goddess.

Then a thing most surprising and unexpected happened: he came first. Of the hundreds of women he had bedded in his life, he had always managed to make them climax before him. It was a skill of which he prided himself. But now he lay, his member pulsing feverishly, his strength ebbing before it was time. Aelina's eyes, which had been closed since he threw her down, suddenly sprang open.

"That's it?" she asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

Crixus could only gasp and heave, embarrassment flushing his face. He had never come first, leaving her beneath him still wanting. A greater desire was kindled inside him: she had been the first woman to break first in their fucking, he would not rest until he had made her climax as he had.

"Oh, no," she chuckled threateningly. "I'm not done with you, little man."

The hand upon his neck tightened, becoming iron-strong, while the nails on his back, dug deep into his skin, turned him over. She was back on top of him, pinning him down onto the bed with her legs. With a fierce scratch, her hands wrenched free and seized his wrists, pinning him down onto the bed as she rode him so much that he feared she would tear off his cock, still hanging inside of her.

"What's wrong, Crixus?" she asked. "Don't you want this?"

By now, Crixus was more than a little worried. He could not move his arms, no matter how much he struggled: even her arms could not be moved, still holding them. He tried to turn over, but found that he could not. He tried to look away, but Aelina leaned in and, with her tongue, turned his face back to gaze into her eyes. Her large, dark eyes.

"You've finally found me," she spoke. "Why aren't you happy?"

But that her tongue had such strength made Crixus even more concerned than before. He doubted that even an Argonian had the strength of tongue to move someone's head, especially when they were tightly holding it down and away. Surely not Aelina...

Aelina had blue eyes.

"I've seen inside your mind," a deep voice spoke from Aelina's lips. "You've asked yourself that question since you first saw my face. It's true. I am your goddess! Worship me!"

The thing that had taken the likeness of Aelina still bore her body, but the voice had become deeper and other-worldly. The eyes, also, were now completely black as ebony. He became aware of the thing's arms: both of them now seemed vast, like the wings of a cliff-racer, holding him down with hands that were now black-nailed, bird-like claws. He struggled to free himself, but the thing gripped tighter, seizing his throat with its left leg that was curled now into a hand.

"If you try to Shout me," the winged horror threatened. "I will ripe out your throat!"

Crixus tried to cry out, but found that the hand-foot upon his throat was too strong. By now, it had shed Aelina's form entirely, its body now blacker than the darkness without and marked with red. He now knew what it was: a winged daedra, a temptress. But knowing what it was did little to help him.

"Useless!" growled the daedra, climbing off his cock. "Just like you mortals! Now then, let's put that silver, Colovian tongue to better uses!" To his surprise, the beast's hand relinquished control of his throat for a moment.

"Help!" Crixus cried in the brief moment of reprieve. "He..."

He only had the one moment. The demon's nethers, filled as they were by his seed, came down upon his face. He tried to bite or rip a piece off, but the daedra had thought of that as well. One hand reached back, seizing the back of his head again, and pulled back, holding his mouth open. With hands, feet and wings pinning his hands and feet down, Crixus was altogether at the mercy of this monster.

_Gods, save me!_ he cried inside.

As if in immediate answer to his prayer, a bright light filled the entire tent. The winged temptress shrieked in a terrible, loud voice that woke the entire village. A voice, speaking as if in a chorus of ten voices, then spoke from the entrance of the tent.

"Begone, foul slave of Molag Bal!" the new voice spoke. "Never torment this man for as long as you draw breath!"

The beast roared at the speaker, then took flight, ripping Crixus' tent out of its moorings and up into the air with it. The cold air struck Crixus immediately and he curled into a ball on the ground, shaking and shivering. Immediately the figure, who had appeared before as a bright, burning light, walked over to Crixus and draped him in a fur cloak.

"Are you alright?" another voice spoke. It was not ten voices, but only one: the voice of Boderic Vesnia, the Knight of the Nine.

It was a long time before Crixus could muster up the courage to finally speak. By then, the entire village and camp was aroused. Petruvius, Lethia, Tiraa and the knights gathered around Crixus while Eirik also stood with them. Everyone was asking the same thing: what happened? Crixus couldn't bring himself to speak it out loud, in front of so many. He especially did not want Gorak to hear what had happened, since he had been his subordinate. However, as cold as he was, he could not speak or shout them all down with oaths and curses as he was wont. When at last he did speak, he spoke in a hoarse whisper that, to his dismay, carried into everyone's ears.

Arcadia and Viator burst into laughter as soon as they heard. Loud, mocking laughter, such that everyone else heard them.

"Men can't be raped!" Arcadia finally spoke, coming down from her peels of laughter.

"Don't say that," Crixus muttered.

"I will say it, because it's true," Arcadia replied. "You enjoyed it, and you know you did."

"Viator, please," Crixus turned. "Please, stop laughing."

"Why not?" Viator asked. "It's fucking funny, arrogant, strong prick such as yours being..." He burst into laughter again. "...raped!"

"I tell you, I was!" Crixus stammered. "Surely you would have some sympathy...because of Romulus."

"Romulus was a man," Viator clarified. "B*tches can't rape a man, there's an issue of power."

"He's right," Casmar added. "In desperate times, even the weakest man will have enough strength to overpower a woman."

"Say that again to my face, sand monkey!" Arcadia retorted.

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here!" Crixus shouted. "It happened, I tell you."

"And good riddance," Lethia added. "It's no more than you deserve, for striking me as you did."

"Lethia," Petruvius interjected.

"I won't be quiet," she replied. "You remember how he treated me!"

"It's no laughing matter," Alcedonia grimly chimed in. "Saying that you were raped makes it hard for anyone to take women seriously when they actually _are_ the ones being raped."

"What's the problem, though?" Tiraa asked, seemingly clueless. "A little rape never hurt anyone. You, Crixus, should be grateful that a daedra raped you, for so it happened unto St. Vivec."

"What about..." Crixus replied. "All those fears of yours? The House of Troubles."

"I never said that," lied Tiraa.

"Yes, you did!" Crixus returned.

"Don't call me a liar!" Tiraa retorted.

By now, Crixus' fear and trembling was replaced with loathing. He was of the belief that his followers either feared or respected him: now it seemed that they did neither. Hearing them laugh, taunt or dismiss what had happened made him feel wretched beyond belief. Not since he had endured the wrath of Sedris Ulver had he felt such, and he had vowed never to be that powerless ever again. One by one they dissipated, going back to their tents.

Only one remained.

"Crixus..." Eirik spoke.

"Go away," Crixus muttered.

"Crixus, please..." Eirik said, kneeling besides Crixus.

"Is this what you want?" Crixus retorted. It was the first time since Sky Haven, when he learned the secret of his ancestry, that Crixus broke down into tears in front of the one who very well may have been the incarnation of the Grey Spirit, his mortal enemy. "To see me shamed and violated? Paid back like that fucking b*tch Jordis?!"

"I know what it's like..." Eirik began.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Crixus returned. "I've done a lot of bad things to you, but I never had you raped. How the fuck could you possibly know what it's like, huh? Tell me that, snow back!"

Eirik could not answer directly, but he did indeed know exactly what it was like. Almost a year ago, Eirik had passed beyond death into the Soul Cairn. In order to do that, he had his companion, Serana of Clan Volkihar, a Daughter of Coldharbor, turn him into a vampire. During the transition, he had inherited every memory of hers of the awful ritual of the 20th of Evening Star, when mortal women were brought before the lord of rape to fulfill his desire for domination. Though she had survived, Eirik still bore memories of the event in his mind from the transition: the trauma he had shared with her in the moment was very real and he alone, of all the others present here, could empathize with Crixus.

"Crixus, look at me," Eirik said. "I believe you. I did not see it happen, but I believe you."

"A lot of good that means," Crixus grimaced. "I'm the laughing stock of all of my subjects and I haven't even taken the throne!"

Eirik did not speak, drawing instead a seax from his belt and cutting his left hand. He then held the cut hand before Crixus' face.

"Here is my blood," he said. "I will speak your oath."

"I don't need your pity," Crixus returned.

"You want my oath?" Eirik asked. "Well, now you will have it. I am here for you."

Crixus did not fully grasp the meaning behind Eirik's words. But he took Eirik's hand in his and spoke his vow.

"With the gods you worship as witness," Crixus spoke. "Let this blood signify that you and the Sons of Skyrim will serve me in all things, obeying orders to come and to go, to do and let be done, fighting for me until I am come to the White-Gold Tower and am seated upon the Ruby Throne as Emperor. That if you fail to carry this out, or dishonor this oath, your life will be forfeit. Do you swear this?"

"Talos preserve me," Eirik replied. "I swear this."

* * *

The rest of the night was spent huddled in one of the houses, surrounded by smelly Orcs snoring away loudly. Crixus could not sleep, for every time he closed his eyes, he saw himself lying helpless again, with the face of the winged horror transforming. For a brief while it was Aelina (or was it his goddess? They were so alike. Even mentioning her again made him shiver for the memory of the words), then it turned to Elisif, then Sedris, Lady Arannelya, or a grey mist that taunted him and laughed at him with the voice of a Nord man. If he had been in any better condition, he would have been elated to have received Eirik's blood oath. His plan was now, by strange means, come to the doorstep of fruition.

When morning finally came, Crixus was brought his clothes by Petruvius, after which he dressed himself, then began to look for a horse to ride. While he was thus searching, Tiraa approached him.

"There's one more thing I'd like to ask of you," she said.

"Haven't you asked enough of me already?" Crixus groaned in reply.

"Well, I still haven't received the Mages Guild charter," she returned. "So I'm still waiting for the first fetching thing you promised me. But if you will take my advice, after our business in Cloud Ruler Temple is done, we should go east to Cheydinhal. Despite House Sadras' strong grip upon that place, the Shield of Hlaalu remain there in secret. I can have them join our cause."

"For what price?" asked Crixus.

"Political and financial backing once you're Emperor," Tiraa stated. "We've been hunted down by Redoran, Telvanni and Sadras for far too long. We need the security and means to begin our relief effort of Vvardenfell, unmolested by our enemies in the other Great Houses."

Tiraa did not think her words carefully before speaking them in his company. Nor would she have cared to do so, considering that she thought herself generally above everyone in Cyrodiil who was not a Dunmer. That she was the stranger in a strange land never occurred to her: _they_ were still the filthy _n'wahs_ who had to obey her whim and will. Crixus said nothing, but her words brought back memories of the previous night. He wondered if he would ever be able to look upon Aelina Cantilius the same way again.

At last he found himself a horse: Petruvius' horse, having them ride in the carriage. Then they packed up their tents, organized their troops, and left Applewatch. Their path left the main road, going in a rough northeastern direction towards a hill in the snow-clad region that rose up to fill most of the sky before them. They passed through woods with tall pines clad in garments of hoary winter rime. For Crixus and the Colovians used to the warmer climes of the south, it was more than they could handle as they shivered beneath their fur cloaks. The Sons of Skyrim, however, walked with ease and gladness of heart, as if they were come into their own homes once again.

Five hours passed that in trackless paths in the frigid hill country of Bruma. Sometimes the snow became so deep that they had to dismount from their horses and lead them upwards on foot. The carriage also became so cumbersome that, by and by, it was decided to abandon it and salvage whatever they could therefrom. This, of course, caused both Estalenya and Antilius no small amount of grief: they had brought a great deal of things, and even the carriage drivers could not carry all that they had brought with them for the last leg on foot.

Needless to say, Crixus' group was more than a little exhausted when they finally cleared the hill upon which the ancient Akaviri fortress stood. The walls had been torn down and it looked like most of the old forts in Skyrim: half a tumbled ruin that belied its former grandeur. But it wasn't deserted. As they arrived, they heard voices crying out from the top of the dais and the towers that stood before a gatehouse that had recently been repaired. Crixus rode up the steps leading from the courtyard to the dais, before the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple. As he rode, he saw assembled before him a small group of men in the Akaviri armor of the Blades, each with a long-sword, or katana in their tongue, hanging from their belt. The new Blades, Crixus saw, consisted of men and women of all races, save for Bosmer, Khajiit and Altmer. At the entrance of the great temple, there stood Delphine in her full regalia.

"Your Majesty," she greeted. "I received your message, but I was expecting your arrival to be sooner, rather than later. You certainly take your time in these matters."

"It's good to see you too, Delphine," Crixus returned, dismounting from off his horse. "Regarding my lateness, I can say no more than that I was delayed, and it nearly proved to be our ruin: but I am here now. However, I'm afraid I don't have much time. I can only stay for a short while, then I must depart for Bruma."

"As you wish," Delphine replied. "But first, I humbly ask that you stand before your Blades and receive our confirmation."

Crixus nodded, realizing that he was just committing what could be construed by the Elder Council as treason. He tied his horse to one of the columns beneath the sloping roof, then stood at Delphine's side. By this time, the others had entered the courtyard and many were climbing the steps and saw the Blades with Crixus standing in their center with their leader.

"Blades!" Delphine cried out. "Dark times are upon us, darker than any that have befallen upon our order since we were first formed. The Blades are disbanded, outlawed by the White-Gold Concordant, Titus Mede II is dead and the Empire is in chaos. Our enemy of old, the Thalmor, control the Elder Council and the House of Nobles.

"But, even in these darkest of times, there is yet hope. I, Delphine of High Rock and Riverwood, Grandmaster of the Blades, have returned to Cloud Ruler Temple to tell you that I have found an heir of the Septim dynasty, one who is of the Dragon-blood. Here is Servius Crixus, descended by a long lineage from Martin Septim!" The Blades as one drew out their katanas, knelt down and held them forward with the blade extended upwards.

"Hail, Dragonborn!" she cried out. "Hail Servius Crixus! Hail!" The others took up the chant, three times they spoke those words.

Crixus merely stood there, torn between worry and joy. It was indeed good to be recognized, worshiped and hailed as he deserved. Nonetheless, he felt a strange feeling of finality, as if he had passed the point of no return. He would either be Emperor now or he would be executed for treason.

The company remained at Cloud Ruler Temple, which was large enough to accomodate all of them as well as the Blades. Delphine had brought a good supply of food and water, enough to last them through the winter. Apparently she knew the number of Crixus' group and had brought enough for all of them to remain here indefinitely until the spring came. As the day wore on, Crixus sought out Delphine in the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple.

"I presume you've sought me out to have me answer some of your questions?" Delphine asked.

"No, I came for other reasons," Crixus returned. "But I do have some questions for you."

"Very well," she returned. "I will answer them."

"How did you know how many of us there were?" Crixus asked.

"I've been keeping watch on you since Kvatch," she replied. "You thought you were very clever, but in truth we had you trailed in secret. It was not easy, of course. Some of our agents had a tendency to...disappear. After that, I had to be even more careful. Neither the Penitus Oculatus nor the Thalmor would have been particularly friendly towards us."

"You still think there are Thalmor behind every bush?" Crixus asked.

"Of course there are," Delphine retorted. "How else could your secret have gotten out?"

"The animist Larth told the Penitus Oculatus about it," Crixus replied.

"But you hadn't made a name of yourself until Chorrol," Delphine stated. "Do you really think the Penitus Oculatus were tracking your every move and guessed of what you were doing? My guess is the Thalmor already knew, and used High Chancellor Buteo and the Oculatus as their tools."

"I don't believe you," Crixus shook his head. "The Penitus Oculatus would never be ordered around by the Thalmor."

"Believe whatever you wish, that is the truth," Delphine stated firmly. "Now, then, is there anything else you would like to ask me?"

"How come you were ready for me when I arrived?"

"You said you would get here in seven days' time," she returned. "Today is the seventh day. Either you were going to arrive today or not at all, so I had the Blades stand ready for you. Is there anything else?"

"Why me?" Crixus asked. "You and Esbern chose me to be Emperor over Eirik: why?"

"You are the only heir of the Septims, from what the old man discovered," Delphine answered. "More than that, you have experience and skills at leading and governing; things that Eirik does not have."

"I see," Crixus nodded.

"Centuries ago," Delphine stated. "The Blades openly declared that only one Dragonborn may be alive at any given point in time. This was not necessarily a true fact, but a bit of cleverness on our part. You can imagine the kind of turmoil and pandemonium if another Dragonborn appeared and laid claim to the Empire. If another claimed to appear, we often hunted them down and executed them to keep their story from spreading."

"Then what's changed?" Crixus asked.

"Nothing, essentially," she explained. "But we are living in desperate times, and desperate times call for desperate measures. As there have been no Dragon-Fires in the Temple of the One in the Capital since Martin's death, the Medan Emperors were confirmed at Sancre Tor, where the Primates each found him or her worthy in the eyes of the Nine. I had hoped that we could go there, but there are rumors spreading that Sancre Tor was burned. We could see the smoke from here."

"They're true," Crixus sighed. "It was burned to the ground, by wild Nords. I managed to arrive there before it happened and received their confirmation."

"I see," Delphine chuckled. "Well, with the loss of the Ecumenical Primature, there is no way to confirm your confirmation. It seems, then, that our best choice would be to take control of the Elder Council. That way, we could have them formally recognize you as the next Emperor. With their backing, the people will accept you."

"Hmm," Crixus muttered. "So, then, what do you propose to do with Eirik?"

"We have our Dragonborn Emperor," she stated. "As far as he goes, we will watch him. If he tries to take your throne, we will kill him."

"Good, good," Crixus replied. "I've had a burning feeling inside me that Eirik is not what he appears to be." He then sighed. "May I ask something of you, Delphine?"

"As you wish, Your Majesty," she answered, inclining her head.

"How far is it from here to Bruma?"

"About five hours by the main road."

"And how fast can a raven messenger reach here?"

"Less than half that time."

"Good, very good," Crixus mused. "Now, then, I have given you what you wanted. If it is at all possible, I want you to keep the Sons of Skyrim here."

"Keep them here, like how?" she asked. "If you wish to incarcerate them, this is not a very good place to do so. We have no dungeons and haven't been able to secure enough stone to rebuild the walls."

"Just tell them," Crixus said. "That I have instructed them to remain here until I have need of them. If you need to restrain them, well, then do so. If they get violent, kill them." He turned to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and one more thing: how many Blades can you spare from this place and how quickly can they be ready?"

"Not very many," she replied. "There are only fifty of us here, and I need at least half of that to remain here to defend this place from ordinary attacks. Wolves, bandits, ogres, that sort of thing. But the half that I can spare can be ready to be dispatched within a moment's notice."

"Excellent," Crixus stated. "If the Sons of Skyrim try to leave through violence, your Blades will stop them. You outnumber them two to one, and those Akaviri swords of yours..." He nodded at her blade. "...could slice through that Nordic steel shite. Now, if you will excuse me, I must retire."

"I can show you to your quarters," Delphine stated.

Crixus wanted to protest, but he thought differently of it. Much better to allow for her in-culpability than to let her in on his plan. There could be no mistakes, not when he was so close to success. Therefore he followed her out of the Great Hall, down the steps and into the courtyard. From there, she turned to the right and entered a room with a stairway leading to an upper room. Here she opened a huge pair of double doors to an old room furnished mostly of wood. It was certainly old, but had recently been renovated and renewed by Delphine and her new Blades.

"This is your room," she replied. "I will have a guard posted outside to keep you safe."

"There's really no need," Crixus returned. "No one knows I'm here and those who are here wouldn't dare try anything against me. Certainly not Eirik: I have his word, and if he breaks it, his life is forfeit."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Delphine strained. "Though I would recommend that you allow me to post a guard."

"And I recommend sleep," Crixus groaned. "It's been a long and tiring journey getting here and I need my rest."

Delphine turned about and left the Emperor's chambers, closing the door behind her. For now, however, Crixus was feeling much better than he had upon the road. The plan was practically already complete, thanks to Marius Imbrex's introductions. Now there was the little matter of the final stage. Already it seemed to Crixus as though that was accomplished before it had actually been accomplished.

* * *

**(AN: My only fear with these stories is that I don't get them removed for all the bad stuff that happens in them. I mean, i try to put my money's worth into it as far as an M-rated story goes [as you can obviously see].)**

**(As you can see, Eirik is a lot more confident than you remember him from _The Dragon and the Bear_. Also, i had to make something REALLY frightening happen. Well, this particular kind of daedra has been in the game since the old days, and i really wanted to show how dark and savage the daedra are in my story [too many people think it's cute, worshiping daedra in _Skyrim_]. I already had one scene in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ that scared you all, so i had to up the ante a bit. Since i have to be in the living room to get ANY wifi [which i use to upload my stories], i have to be there as my brother watches all sorts of horror movies [like _The Fourth Kind_, which really freaked me out].)  
**

**(Of course, the chapter ends with questions once again being put forth more than answers. Now that Crixus is officially recognized, what will he do? And why did he order the Blades to keep the Sons of Skyrim in Cloud Ruler Temple?)**


	43. The Nord Problem

**(AN: Before we begin with Bruma, i want to talk about two things. First off, i want you all to know how disappointed i am in all of you. Not that you're not reading or reviewing, but that i believed you to be smart enough to make connections in the text without me having to hold your hand and spell it all out to you [that's one big fear of mine in writing, that NOBODY's gonna understand what i'm trying to get across unless i hammer them over the heads with it until it becomes cheesy melodrama].)**

**(The second thing is _Oblivion_. Since i'm going through Bruma, i did a lot of research of screen-caps from _Oblivion_ to get a reference to what it looks like: and it's hideous! I mean it, the trees look as ugly as the people do! At least _Skyrim_ was closer to capturing how beautiful forests look when clad in snow. Winter is beautiful, it's not "bleak" and "colorless" like you tree-obsessed, so-bright-green-i-want-to-rip-my-eyeballs-out wood elves claim!)**

**(Since i talk about _Oblivion_ a lot, let me say a few words about my fount of _Elder Scrolls_/_Skyrim_ lore, the Unofficial Elder Scrolls Page. The tone of the articles is very pro-Imperial, what with the word usage in the articles for "Elisif" and "Torygg" being very supportive of the Imperial side. Just give those pages a look, with an eye for word choice, and you will see what i mean.)  
**

* * *

**The Nord Problem**

Bruma, otherwise known as 'little Skyrim' among the cultured Nibenese folk of eastern and central Cyrodiil. Political infighting during the Stormcrown Interregnum saw the House Carvain destroyed utterly. No one family managed to maintain rule over the County of Bruma during the two hundred years since the Oblivion Crisis: no family, that is, until Ansvild. He had been a Nord of a wealthy family living in Bruma, who, like the Imga to the Altmer, admired and revered Colovian and Nibenese higher culture, even to the point of keeping a collection of Akaviri relics in his castle. He had mostly kept out of the war, refusing to send troops to defend the beleaguered Blades in Cloud Ruler Temple when the Dominion besieged it, choosing diplomacy over actively fighting.

After the War came to a close, Ansvild, at the age of sixty, embraced the White-Gold Concordant with open arms. It was his wish, due to his belief in the superiority of the Imperial culture, to see Bruma 'civilized' and fundamentally transformed beyond merely being 'little Skyrim.' With help from the Synod, who had a presence in that city, he had the old Chapel of Talos redecorated and re-dedicated as the Bruma University, where he compelled all youths in Bruma to submit for their formal education. Though some good was in essence taught, a good deal of their studies focused on Placator doctrine, with _The Talos Mistake_ held in as high a place of reverence as _The 36 Lessons of Vivec_ were in Vvardenfell during the days of the Tribunal.

When Ansvild died at the age of seventy-five, his son Edvald took the throne of Bruma, signifying to many that stability had at last come to the county of Bruma. During his rule, Colovian and Nibenese "Imperial" culture was universally adopted by the upper class of Bruma and the more radical doctrine of the day became instigated. The weapons ban was enforced heavily, dissent against the White-Gold Concordant was punished publicly, and Nords were outlawed from holding any position besides farming and herding. Publicly, of course, he claimed that there was no discrimination against Nords going on.

"It is the law of the Empire," he had said. "That those who are strongest must take the jobs that require more strength. No one is forcing Nords not to work any other kind of job."

This was, of course, a flat-out lie. Unlike the people of Skyrim, who enjoyed a small measure of economic freedom, the Nords of Bruma were, essentially, serfs. Their rights were curtailed even sharper during the Civil War, when most of the people of Cyrodiil looked upon all the Nords as rebels and supporters of Ulfric's rebellion. Even after the war ended, they did not enjoy their ancient rights and privileges.

While the majority of people in Bruma were of mild temperaments, eager to knuckle under, bear the burdens of their day with calmness and hope for a better future, there were some who resisted. The Sons of Skyrim, to which Eirik the Dragonborn once belonged and from whence he borrowed the name of his group which he led after the downfall of the rebellion, had their origin here in Bruma. Many of them had returned to Skyrim to fight in the Civil War: some were now outlaws living in fear for their lives in the tundra of the North, many now feasted in Sovngarde, swiftly sent there by Legion swords and arrows, others were hunted down by the Dunmer or Reachmen in the east and west. Still some did not even come to Windhelm to speak their oaths, being captured by the Imperial border guards and executed. Yet a faithful few remained in Bruma, fighting to break the yoke of the Count's tyranny. To this end, Edvald had requisitioned General Tullius' Red Legions upon their return from Skyrim to remain in Bruma to keep the peace.

This was the state of the city as Crixus came upon it in secret, the very day after his arrival at Cloud Ruler Temple. He came upon it from the north gate, coming down the lane that would lead travelers to the Jerall View Inn, the only tavern in Bruma that had been kept in business since the time of the Septims. Crixus would have liked to visit the inn, since he had drank most of the Black-Briar mead and was still thirsty for it, but he knew what he had to do here in Bruma. The journey to Cloud Ruler Temple had taken much longer than anticipated, what with being captured. He hoped that his invitation was still good.

The city was built on many terraces, and, though it was low on the western side, Castle Bruma had a terrace of its own. Up this Crixus went, coming up to the yard gate of the castle. Here he told the guards who he was and that he was expected. Within five minutes, the yellow-clad city guards returned, telling him that he was permitted to enter, and escorted him up to the keep, where the doors to the audience chamber were flung open.

The great hall of the castle was no different than any of the others he had visited. Built of stone like the others, with a vaulted ceiling very much like the others, though the golden banners with black phoenix rising from the ashes hung from the ceilings. Local musicians were present, playing "Farewell to Colovia", an old ballad from the Third Era. At the far end of the throne there sat Count Edvald, with Chancellor Imbrex at his side. Edvald the Wise was, despite his moniker, rather young: only thirty-five years of age and still in remarkable shape. He bore a short, neatly cropped beard and mustache around his mouth, but his forehead was so pronounced and his hair-line having already begun to recede before its time gave him the impression of being almost bald and therefore older than he truly was. He wore a golden doublet with black phoenixes embroidered into the body, and grey tights after the fashion of the counts of the Third Era. Upon his shoulders, like most Colovian and Nibenese nobility of today, was a gilded cloak that bespoke his status as a member of the House of Nobles.

"Your highness," the soldier who escorted Crixus into the hall proclaimed. "Servius Crixus."

"Hmm, yes," Count Edvald mused, stroking his short beard pensively. "I remember you. My Chancellor had already made the proper introductions, and I was eager to meet you...last month, that is. You're very late: a habit more common among Nords than us civilized folk." He spoke without a hint of irony, for he was in fact a Nord just as his father and his father's father had been Nords before him.

"My apologies, Your Highness," Crixus bowed, chuckling inside that the Emperor had to bow before anyone. "I was delayed, and it nearly proved our downfall."

"Come closer, Crixus," Edvald said. "Let me see your face." The guards led Crixus up to the throne, and Edvald, with lower lip pursed, looked long and hard upon Crixus.

"Hmm, yes," he mused. "You have the noble bearing of a Colovian, and clearly the accent of one. I prefer the Nibenese accent, the accent of the Riverlands. Still, I have heard great things about you, Crixus. I have even heard that you wish to help me with my problem."

"Yes, my lord," Crixus replied eagerly. "It is for this very purpose that I have come here."

"Very well, let us talk on these matters as friends," Edvald replied. "For already I saw in you, from my Chancellor's introduction, a kindred spirit." At this, Edvald dismissed the musicians and summoned other servants and bade them prepare a table in the great hall for his guest. While this was underway, Edvald alighted from off his throne and walked towards Crixus.

"If I may elaborate," he began. "I would like to tell you that I have no love of politics. My desires are simple: the study of our beloved Imperial culture and the earnest aspiration to attain such perfection in myself." He sighed. "However, it seems that these damned Nords have only one thing in mind: to make my reign as fucking miserable as possible!"

"My lord," Crixus stated. "Far be it from me to question you in any way, but does it behoove you to use such common, uncouth language?"

"I am the Count, dammit!" Edvald exclaimed. "I can say whatever the fuck I like!" He sighed, rubbing his forehead, then turned away.

"Forgive me, my friend," he continued. "But I simply cannot abide anyone telling me what to do. These false, two-faced Nords do it all the time." He groaned. "Oh, by the Eight! You cannot imagine the demands they place on me! 'We want jobs', 'We want our weapons', 'Stop oppressing us!' It is enough to drive one mad!"

"I can see how that is true," Crixus stated.

"No one is oppressing them, that's what they don't see!" Edvald continued. "They don't deserve to be anything beyond farmers and herders." He chuckled. "Can you indeed imagine a Nord doing something as complicated as shoeing a horse or forging weapons for the Imperial Legions? That also is why we have enforced the weapons ban: common-folk do not need weapons, only the city guard need weapons. The only common-people who ask for weapons are dissidents like the Sons of Skyrim!"

"I see," Crixus replied. He found Edvald's 'hatred for politics' to be much to his liking and in his favor.

"It's not a matter of oppression," Edvald explained. "It's simply a matter of I, their Count, being superior to them by the grace of the Eight. And, in that light, having the burden of correcting those who can be corrected...or scourging out those who will not see correction."

By this time their table arrived, and servants then came to set the table with such food as were common among the affluent members of Imperial high society. Crixus was offered to sit down first, after which Count Edvald prepared to take his seat. But, as he was sitting down, he noticed that something was missing.

"Knave!" he shouted. "Knave! Where is my knave? I'd like you to meet him, Crixus. He's certainly worth a few laughs. I need him at such times, to ease my humors when my blood boils, which it often does when talking about Nords. Knave!"

A very pathetic figure appeared, hobbling out from behind the throne. He was clad in a coarse brown robe of sack-cloth and his straw-colored hair was filthy and matted. But as he looked up, Crixus began to recognize a few features: the small, steele blue eyes, pointed beard and curled mustache were unmistakable.

"Crixus," Edvald continued. "Allow me to introduce you to my knave, Idolaf of Clan Battle-Born, one of the savage clansmen native to Skyrim."

Crixus was surprised to see his friend reduced to what amounted to no more than a beggar. He saw that Edvald treated him like a dog, kicking him and throwing rotten or half-eaten food from his plate as he saw fit.

"Why do you treat him this way, sir?" asked Crixus.

"Who, my knave?" Edvald asked, his mouth full of food. "He amuses me, so I keep him there. Besides, I've heard what happened to him. He brags about his martial prowess, how many Stormcloaks he had killed, but..." He swallowed the bite he had been working on. "...I have it on good authority that it's all a pack of lies!"

"Never!" Idolaf dismissed, shaking his head. "I wish that milk-drinker Eirik was here. I'd bash his face in and piss in his open neck!"

"Not without any cock, you wouldn't!" Edvald exclaimed, kicking Idolaf in the ribs and sending him rolling onto his back.

"But why is he here?" Crixus asked.

"Now that is an interesting story," Edvald said. "Fortunately, I know the true version. A few months ago, he took control of the local Fighters Guild in Skyrim, or whatever stupid traditional bull-shite they call it. He had planned on turning it into a paragon of Imperial perfection, in mockery of the Fighters Guild. But then he was overthrown and cast out, with his cock and balls ripped off!" Edvald shuddered. "How can any civilized person stand to live around such savagery!"

"Go on," Crixus said, taking a sip from the wine in the cups that had been served to them.

"Well, the way I heard it," Edvald continued. "He was disowned by his father: something about refusing to hide his deeds anymore and being ashamed over his son."

"My son ain't no milk-drinker!" Idolaf protested. "He's a strong, proud boy. One day he'll be old enough, and he'll come back and fuck that little shit Thorald Grey-Mane in the ass for what he did to me!"

"Speak out of turn again," Edvald shouted. "And you won't have any dinner. Now get down there and lick my shoes until you can see yourself in their shine!" He then turned back to Crixus with a smile. "Shamed and disowned, he fled to Bruma, where I gave him shelter and asylum from the 'cowards' and 'milk-drinkers' who had bested him. As I enjoy seeing barbarians suffer and come to consternation, I decided to make him my knave. He amuses me, don't you think?"

Crixus looked down, seeing the proud Idolaf Battle-Born licking Count Edvald's shoes. Inside he was angry, seeing someone he considered his best friend be humiliated like a dog. But another thought made him wonder if Eirik and Jordis would be pleased to see that this had been his outcome.

"Now, then," Edvald continued. "My Chancellor made it clear to me that you had a final solution to my problem." He took a sip of his wine. "Please, indulge me. I am most curious to hear of it."

"I have heard," Crixus said. "That you would like to see the Nord population of Bruma reduced to ten percent. I say that this is not enough: I say they must all be wiped out."

Edvald sighed. "Yes, yes, that would be best, I know. But I don't have enough man-power to execute a plan of this magnitude."

"You may not have to," Crixus stated. "Is it true that General Tullius is still in your county?"

"Yes," Edvald nodded. "I have him on retainer to keep the peace."

"I would like a message sent to him immediately," Crixus stated. "And another to Cloud Ruler Temple. Do you have any raven messengers?"

"Yes, I do," Edvald replied.

"Good," Crixus nodded. "After this lovely meal, I would like to send several messages to my allies. They will be most useful in carrying this out."

"Wait, now?" Edvald asked. "But you haven't even rested yet!"

"I don't need to rest," Crixus dismissed. "I've waited far too long for this to come about, I can rest afterwards. For now, however, we have work to do. How soon can the city be placed under martial law?"

"Martial law?"

"To keep the Nord population inside the city," Crixus explained.

"Very soon," Edvald replied.

"No later than tomorrow," Crixus added. "Then I must send for my Orc Legions."

"Hmm, yes," Edvald mused aloud. "Nothing better than to give these brutes a taste of their own medicine. The only language these savages understand is violence, so give them violence in return for their violent behavior."

"Well, ultimately yes," Crixus explained. "But I do have another option, one that will see more...lasting changes."

"Do tell," Edvald grinned. "I'm eager to hear what you have to offer me." Edvald then looked down at his feet, then kicked Idolaf in the mouth.

"Who said you could still be here?" he demanded. "I'm done with you, back to your cage!"

Crawling on all fours like a cur, Idolaf scurried out of the room. Once he was gone, Crixus told Edvald his entire plan. The young Count reclined in his chair, stroking his chin pensively with one hand as he smoked from an ivory pipe, musing on the meticulously detailed plan which Crixus had long in mind. When at last he concluded speaking, Edvald sighed.

"I'm terribly sorry, my friend," he said. "I see the good in this plan, but I simply don't have the manpower to bring it about."

"What about General Tullius' Legions?" Crixus asked. "You did say he was here in the county."

"Keeping the peace, yes," sighed Edvald. "But even that he does reluctantly. Even if I were to have his support in this matter, such an operation would be...problematic at best."

"How so?" Crixus asked. "Are you not the Count?"

"Well, of course I am," Edvald replied, rising from his seat to pace before Crixus. "But it's...well, it's more complicated than merely giving an order of this size. There are some on the Elder Council who might take offense at our actions, unless..." He paused, then turned to Crixus with a smile on his face. "Unless we can present probable cause of their treacherous activities in Bruma!"

"Is that possible?" Crixus asked. "I mean, surely we can find something. They're Nords, after all."

"We've tried everything possible," a voice spoke. Crixus turned about and saw a familiar face approach him. It was Ondolemar, formerly the chief Thalmor justicar, second only to Elenwen before Thelgil took personal control of the justicars. He seemed none the worse for wear, as if the recent purging of the Thalmor from Skyrim meant little to him.

"My lord Ondolemar!" Crixus greeted, rising to his feet.

"You know each other, I take it?" Edvald asked.

"Servius Crixus has been most helpful during my operations in Skyrim," Ondolemar stated. "His assistance against the white Nords has been invaluable. You could not wish for a finer agent on your side."

"This is good," Edvald stated.

"What exactly have you tried, my lord?" Crixus asked Ondolemar.

"Our spies have done their utmost," Ondolemar began. "To ensnare the local Nords in some kind of lawless activities. However, since the death of Ulfric Stormcloak, many have become silent. We would not be able to prosecute them without suspicion."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "There's just one thing I want to ask you, Ondolemar, if I may: what brings you to Cyrodiil? I don't recall seeing you at the Siege of Solitude."

"I was recalled by the new Thalmor Ambassador," Ondolemar replied. "Then posted to Anvil to aid the new count in administrative duties, after which I was recalled again and assigned to Bruma to lead the Thalmor justicars, if you must know." He turned to leave, then added: "Don't mind me, both of you. My interest is these matters is only in seeing the White-Gold Concordant upheld: you all should know that." With that he left the room.

"A good mer, him," Edvald stated. "It's a pity everyone else in Bruma only sees in him an enemy."

"So, then," Crixus spoke. "You need inside information on what the Nords are up to, in order to legally prosecute them according to my plan?"

"Yes," Edvald nodded.

"I'll get you proof, no matter what it takes," Crixus replied. "In the meantime, I need to use your ravens. I have messages to send immediately. You were correct, your Highness, in stating that I have taken time in coming here. Too much time has been lost as it is."

"Yes, yes, exactly!" Edvald exclaimed. "Expediency is what's need now, more than ever! I'll have Chancellor Imbrex aid you in whatever you need. I will give you a room here in the castle..."

"Thank you, my lord," Crixus replied. "But I would just as soon sleep in the Jerall View Inn. I will be spending quite a bit of time in the streets of Bruma today and tonight."

Edvald summoned the chief of his servants as well as Marius Imbrex, and instructed them to obey anything that Crixus told them to do. Within minutes, Crixus had Chancellor Imbrex sitting at the little table with him, writing a letter to Gorak. Meanwhile, Crixus paced back and forth, going over the plan in his mind.

_It takes about five hours to reach here from Cloud Ruler Temple on foot,_ he thought, reminding himself of his clandestine escape from Cloud Ruler earlier this very morning._ It will take a few days, of course, to get everything prepared. No, I think it will work._

His hands were shaking with anticipation at what he was about to undertake. The plan was finally about to come true.

"Sir?" Marius Imbrex spoke. "I've finished the letter per your instructions."

"Good, good," Crixus muttered in reply, breaking his pacing to gaze over the letter. It read thus:

_To Gorak gro-Shagk, Commander of the 37th Orsinium cohort of the Imperial Haafingar garrison,_

_Greetings. As your future Emperor and former commanding officer, I request that you and your company make for the city of Bruma, where you will be housed by Count Edvald and given further orders. No matter what happens once you arrive, you are to take orders from me and only me as your commanding officer and future Emperor._

_S.C._

"Very good," Crixus stated. "You pay excellent attention to detail, Chancellor Imbrex. I want to add a post-script. Write: '_Burn this note upon reading, no questions asked._'"

"As you wish," Imbrex sighed. "Though it's a shame to waste such a fine work of art."

"You cherish your own workmanship," Crixus noted.

"I recognize and appreciate excellence, wherever it may be found," Imbrex stated. "Among the Colovian gentry, of course."

"And what of the Count?" asked Crixus. "From his name, he sounds as though he is a Nord."

"We do not discuss that openly," Imbrex grumbled. "Suffice it to say that his Highness is aware and thoroughly ashamed of his heritage, as all Nords should be. And he has the wisdom to act against his heritage, to rectify the mistakes of his race."

"Hmm, a noble sentiment," Crixus nodded. "Now, then, is my letter ready?"

"Yes, of course," Imbrex replied.

"Good," Crixus said. "Have it sent to Cloud Ruler Temple by the fastest raven, then have another sent to General Tullius' camp. While you're doing that, I need some local clothes: something with a hood, and a lot of furs."

"Why, sir?" Imbrex asked.

"I have some secrets to uncover," Crixus replied.

* * *

From his talk with the Count, Crixus realized that probable cause had to be given for what was about to be carried out. Even though this was happening in Bruma, this was, after all, still Cyrodiil: one simply did not treat the civilized folk of Colovia or Nibenay the same way as one treated the Nords of Skyrim. Imperial Law was the final authority of the land, immutable and unchangeable by any save the Elder Council and/or the Emperor: Nord tradition and customs could be overridden whenever convenient, especially in problematic circumstances such as the duel between Ulfric Stormcloak and Torygg Istlodsson. To be sure, none of the other cultures of the other provinces were looked upon with such derision, but there were exceptions to the rule. In the view of the high society of the Empire, Nords ignorantly held onto their old customs and traditions while others, even Dunmer, permitted themselves to assimilate and acclimatize themselves to the superior Imperial culture: House Hlaalu, in their hey-day, was such an example. That the Nords did not was 'proof' of their ignorance and cultural inferiority.

Therefore Crixus left the castle and went to the Jerall View, dressed as a traveler from Skyrim. He ordered a drink for himself - Black-Briar mead, much to his surprise - and kept to the shadows, listening to what was going on more than merely talking. The conversation was mostly about things happening along the Cheydinhal border. Lawlessness and disorder seemed to have that county in its grip, and Dreyla Sarys, the Countess of Cheydinhal, was not doing anything about it. Nay, even worse, according to the rumors, she was in fact fanning the flames of the riots, so to speak, even as they were being lit.

"They say," one patron said. "She makes speeches three times a month. Everyone in the city comes to hear them, even the rioters. The speeches are all the same: the Empire doesn't care about the Dunmer, the Empire let the white Nords murder Dunmer in Skyrim by the scores, the Empire ain't leading the relief effort to Vvardenfell. To hear her say it, the Empire isn't helping the Dunmer unless they had everything to them on a silver platter."

Other such rumors were also passing around. Maven Black-Briar had come to Cheydinhal and, capitalizing on the chaos, re-opened the Black-Briar meadery. In the space of about ten months, her enterprise had risen again from the ashes of her exile from Skyrim and was competing with the Surilie Family for control over the wine market of the Nibenay Basin. The fire on Sancre Tor had not gone unnoticed. No two stories agreed on who started the fire, which Crixus found to be welcome and assuring. However, the mention of the fire brought an idea for probable cause into his mind which he decided he would have to bring before the Count that evening.

As evening made its hasty approach, Crixus took stock of the other rumors he had heard: turmoil in Skyrim with the Kingdom of the Reach and New Gnisis, the coronation of a new King of Wayrest, a Wild Hunt in Valenwood, and, of course, tales of the Wanderer in the eastern forests near the Velothi Mountains. None of what was said could be construed even in the slightest as treason, not even by Crixus. For a while, Crixus was brought to a halt, gazing at the golden mead in his cup and wondering about what he was doing.

_Is it all worth it?_ he asked. _Every day I wake up, I have to remind myself that the Nords are evil. It's damn tiresome! Are they _really_ evil, or am I merely looking for something that's not there?_

While he was thus musing, a man approached him and whispered into his ear: "Agnar's house, tomorrow at nine. Password is 'Matilda.'"

Crixus nodded, but made no answer. He groaned, then shook his head, remembering that he still had a task ahead of him. Then he recalled why he did what he did, why it was still worth it after all these years. The Nords hurt him, the Nords humiliated him, living among Nords threatened him, and their folk hero contradicted and denounced him! They were the ones who dared to stand up to the Dominion when the Empire had bowed down, showing them up for the impotent cowards they were: true, the Redguards did likewise, but Crixus had no personal history of hatred against them as he did with Nords. In fact, he had plans of his own to break the powers of the Kingdom of Hammerfell and return them to the thralldom of the Empire. But for the Nords, merely defeating the rebels was not enough. Crixus had to break them, body and spirit: he had to drive the barbarians into the sea, just as he always said should happen. If the Divines were not going to answer his prayers to sink Skyrim into the sea and take all its damned inhabitants with it, then he would act on his own volition.

He remained in the Jerall View Inn until the clock in the old university struck eight. Afterwards, he walked over to the bartender, who he had not spoken to in all of his time here. His drinks were brought to him by a Nibenese serving girl. The bartender was a Nord of middling age with thin, balding blond hair.

"I trust you're not planning any trouble, stranger," the man said. "We're not like the people of Skyrim here in Bruma: we only want peace and safety."

"I wanted to ask you," Crixus said. "If you know the way to Agnar's house."

"Oh, a bad place, that is," he muttered. "Only those as go looking for mischief go there. The Sons of Skyrim used to have their headquarters there, in the House of Sven Stone-fist. They tore it down, but Agnar's house has just as much a bad name as the other place."

"Can you tell me where it is?" Crixus asked.

"Southern end of town, behind the university," the bartender stated. "If you get hauled off to the castle's dungeons for causing mischief, don't say I didn't warn you."

Less than an hour later, Crixus made his way to the south of town. It was cramped with many wooden houses, any one of them which might have been Agnar's house. He waited in the shadows until he saw someone approach one of the houses, pause at the door, then enter in. Once they entered in, Crixus walked up to the house and knocked at the door. A peep-hole was opened and a voice spoke from through it: "Who slew the braggart of Rorikstead?"

"Matilda," Crixus spoke, remembering the password he had been given.

The peep-hole closed, then a lock was removed and the door opened. Crixus was ushered into a long, narrow dark hallway leading down of flight of creaking, old wooden stairs. Down, down the stairs went, deep into bedrock, to the foundations of the old city, founded in ancient times by the Nords when this was the ninth hold of Skyrim and the Reach was under the power of the Reachmen. After going down this far, the tunnel turned left into a wide cellar lit with torches and filled almost to the brim with many people, huddled together in the cold cellar. Crixus counted how many people here: there must have been no fewer than eighty. They were, all of them, Nords, as Crixus noticed. Many of them were tall, but there were enough who were short in the reckoning of Nords and of average to tall height among normal Colovian people, allowing him to disappear into the crowd with hood down over his face.

In the center of the group there were three people which Crixus guessed were the leaders of this little assembly. Those who were near them nodded, bowed or offered gifts to them. There was an old man with thin white hair and a long, forked beard who leaned on a short staff. Next to him was a tall, young man in the prime of his strength, with long golden hair. He was of similar body to Eirik, though his arms were not as large, his stature not as tall and his beard was shorter. The third was a woman, of thirty years maybe, though still fair: her skin was pale like the fresh-fallen snow and her hair was like a river of blood.

A few more minutes passed, after which a man came back down the stairs and made his way through the crowd, whispering something to the old man, who nodded. Afterwards, he went back up the stairs while the old man, seated, began to speak to those gathered here.

"Kinsmen, sons and daughters of Kyne," the old man spoke. "As we have always done, I, your host, Agnar, implore you all to speak your grievances. None shall be dismayed or silenced, though I ask that, because there are so many of you, that you do not all talk at once. There will be time enough for all of you, even if we must talk on into the night or adjourn for a later date."

A chorus of voices were raised from those gathered around them. They all had things which seemed to all narrow down to one thing: the Count abusing the Nord populace of Bruma. Taxes were being raised, businesses that had been in families for generations closed, graves dug up, bones burned, children stolen out of the arms of their parents to be raised in orphanages from here to Anvil, Colovian and Nibenese names being forced upon them, priests refusing to marry Nord couples, and, of course, midnight abductions by Thalmor agents, murders in the streets and public executions. Crixus shut his ears to these things: to them, it was only annoying sounds which set him off. How dare they complain over their rightful punishment!

"I had kin living in Solitude!" an old woman said. "Now I hear they were among those the elves hanged from the city walls! And what does our beloved cunt Edvald do? He lets those hateful bastards come to and fro throughout the city, killing and kidnapping at will!"

"Aye!" the young man spoke. "We've all heard what's happened. But now, we must decide what we will do in return for this injustice! With respect to my father, for many years we have hidden in the shadows, speaking in hushed tones, whispering our fears for fear of the Count's many ears. I say that we have been this way too long! Many of our kin in Bruma have a heart only for peace, but we cannot hope for peace while those who hate us plot our ruin. Now is the time to strike back! We may be few in number, but we outnumber the city guards. Let us take up our tools of farming and beat them into weapons, that we may drive this bastard out of the count's throne and end the injustice!" Many cried their approval: Crixus was silent, but hopeful at heart. Here were treasonous words enough.

"No!" the red-haired woman interjected, rising up. "Listen, my people! I have lived under the same yoke as all of you. I, like Hjoldir, chafe with you all against the pitiful state of our great county and our kinfolk. I also yearn for the day when the House of Ansvild loses the throne of Bruma and one of our own sit there to rule in justice. But we must not repay violence with more violence!" Markedly fewer cries of approval were raised.

"Lysa speaks truth," one from the crowd said. "Now is not the time for more bloodshed!"

"Haven't enough lives been lost in the Great War?" an old man from the crowd asked. "Must we lose more blood as well?"

"We should not shirk for fear of death," the young man, Hjoldir, retorted. "Better to die free than live under the tyranny of Edvald the Dishonorable!"

"I do not fear death," Lysa, the red-haired woman, replied. "My bravery is an equal match to any man from Bruma or Skyrim. And when the day comes when we must defend ourselves, not if, for it _will_ come to that, I will be the first to take up axe and shield for the people of Bruma. But we cannot jump at the chance for war, not until every last option has been expended."

"Have we not expended all our options?" Hjoldir asked. "Have we not petitioned peacefully to have these harsh and cruel policies redressed? Have we not protested his actions whenever they have become intolerable? Have we not spoken of our grievances to our friends abroad, sending letters through our network far and wide, writing of our troubles in the Black Horse Courier? And what have our entreaties been met with? The Courier is banned in the Capital, in exchange for that rag of lies, the Imperial Herald, we are cut off from our friends abroad, our petitions go unheeded and our people are imprisoned by the damn Thalmor! Have we not yet run out of options?" Once more there were cries of affirmation among the group. Crixus grinned, sitting back in his secluded corner: people like Hjoldir made hating Nords an easy task.

But Lysa had yet more to say. "We must yet try again. Trust me, good kinsmen, I am not like those of our people who are ashamed of our roots. I have nothing but respect for our ancient customs. Nevertheless, it is because of that respect that I ask us not to leap blindly into a dangerous situation. The Count sees us all as savages: to respond to his provocations with violence only gives life to his lies. We must keep our traditions held sacred in our hearts, yet behave in a way that will show them just how barbaric _their_ actions are. Then they will have but two choices: either to capitulate to our pleas, or to suppress us through tyranny."

There was much dialogue back and forth, between Lysa and Hjoldir. In the end, however, Lysa's moderation seemed to win out. This angered Crixus, for he would have preferred if Hjoldir had come out on top of the discussion. It would have made the plan easier to execute. As it was, it would be a little bit more problematic to execute, but he would find a way to bring it about.

* * *

From Agnar's House, Crixus went immediately to the Castle, where he found Count Edvald and Ondolemar in the Count's study. He told them everything he had learned from the Jerall View Inn and his time in Agnar's House. The two listened intently, making no outbursts or comments until Crixus had finished his report.

"Hmm," Edvald muttered. "Well, certainly holding assemblies such as the one you describe is unlawful for Nords to do. But I, for one, am most offended at their comments against the Thalmor! Their presence in the Empire is necessary to prevent these savage brutes from killing more elves. Surely the reports from the North, about the rebel leader murdering Dunmer, is proof enough that all Nords want to eradicate the elvish races. Stopping them before they act is essential!"

"I agree," Ondolemar stated with a sly smile. "But, I am afraid, your Highness is mistaken. Our only presence in the Empire is to see that the White-Gold Concordant is carried out to the letter. We would never dream of interfering with _your_ government."

Edvald sighed, then turned to Crixus. "Politics, eh? Now, then, what did they say?"

"Words mostly," Crixus replied. "They only complained. In the end, they decided not to act."

"More's the pity," Edvald lamented. "It would have given us the perfect excuse. No one on the Elder Council would object to a nobleman defending his throne against a bloody coup."

"Perhaps we could find a way to expedite this plan?" Crixus asked. "Whether or not the Nords have actually done anything is irrelevant. What's relevant is preventing them from doing something in the near future. It's better that a few pay the price now than for another Ulfric Stormcloak to rise up against their rightful ruler."

"And I agree with you whole-heartedly," Edvald replied. "But without a probable cause, there will be questions raised."

Crixus rubbed his temples, then turned to the Count. "Have you heard about Sancre Tor?"

"We all saw light coming from the Golden Hill," Edvald replied. "Some thought there was a great fire there."

Crixus leaned back in his chair, groaning as he spoke at last. "I was there. Yes, I was at Sancre Tor. And I know what happened."

"Do tell, what happened?" Edvald eagerly asked.

"There was a fire," Crixus replied. "I and my companions barely escaped with our lives from that fire. I also know who started the fire. Nords did it. The Sons of Skyrim did it."

"Yes, of course," Edvald gasped. "That's perfect! This man you mentioned, the old one, Agnar. I have it on good authority that he was close to Sven Stone-fist, the ring-leader of the Sons of Skyrim in Bruma. It's brilliant!"

"How so?" asked Crixus.

"Well, certainly no one can fault this defense," Edvald stated. "The Nords certainly have been offended at the White-Gold Concordant, the deicide of Talos. Of course they would attack Sancre Tor: if they can't have their false god, they'll burn down the temples of all the others!" This was, of course, not true. Few of the people in Agnar's House had brought forth complaints over the worship of Talos being outlawed.

"It's brilliant!" exclaimed the Count. "A prelude to their strike against our one true authority. We must act now, before they have time to organize."

"Call for martial law," Crixus stated, his heart racing: the plan was unfolding before his very eyes. "Have the borders closed, then close off the city. Anyone found outside of the city walls gets thrown in prison. Secure Bruma. I must speak with General Tullius."

"He's a day's ride east of here," the Count said. "At Fort Horunn. I can have a horse readied for you to leave at first light tomorrow."

"Excellent," Crixus replied. There was no turning back now.

* * *

**(AN: Despite having many chapters of 8000 words, this looks like it will be the shortest installment of my _Elder Scrolls_ fic-series yet. I did get to have a little bit of fun, eviscerating a-holes in fiction [none of you readers, mind you, unless you happen to be a certain critic who shall not be named or an overrated Norwegian "musician"]. If you found Edvald to be a little bit contradictory, that's the point: he's two-faced, saying one thing and holding to quite another. Notice how he claims to have no love of politics, but is in fact very political and sets his sails by the political winds of his day.)  
**

**(One thing that has made writing this story difficult is how i have to write people who are monsters. Crixus has few redeemable qualities [besides his love for the Empire and his hatred for Talos and Nords, which, based on how many Imperial supporters i've run into online, are "good" things], and most of the other characters i've presented have almost no moral compunction with betrayal, lies, hypocrisy and murder: people you all love and enjoy, if _American Horror Story, Wreck-it-Ralph, Frozen, Maleficent, Despicable Me_ and _Wicked_ are any indication.)**


	44. Consequences

**(AN: The one thing my brother and i agree on is that the Thalmor are evil. The only difference is that i take the Stormcloak route of directly fighting them, whereas he agrees with the Imperial solution of being friendly with them and hope that they'll "let slip" enough information that the Empire can use against them [which is great folly]. But I just saw something that pissed me off, both as a Stormcloak supporter and as someone who is part-Jewish: someone on that "wretched hive of scum and villainy" [ie. tumblr] claimed that the Thalmor were not only needful to prevent an "elven genocide" by the Nords - which sounds like something my brother would say - but he/she also said that the Altmer were "Jewish-coded." HOW? Based on the lore, they're like Imperial Japan meets the SS meets the islamic state of Israel and Syria [Isis is an Egyptian goddess], with a dash of the Spanish Inquisition thrown in. [NONE of you expected that, i bet? Fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Dominion and c*mberbatch-like features!])**

**(On a less divisive subject, i had an epiphany that i'm still hitting myself over the head because i didn't use this in an author's note for _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_. One of my reviewers asked if Eirik was a drunk because he drank mead with no consideration to when it was "appropriate" to drink. But then just recently [years after that point was argued] i realized that ancient/medieval cultures would have drunk wine or mead, since there were no means of purifying water. It's true that there are wells, but those can be defiled [especially in Vvardenfell, where there is, prior to the Red Year, occasional ash-fall], and the only means that i can discern which could be used to purify water would be magic. But then again, most Tamrielic mages want to become gods or destroy things, so they're not using Restoration to unlock purifying spells.)**

**(Today another layer of Eirik's legend will be revealed.)**

* * *

**Consequences**

The morning of the twenty-second day of Sun's Dusk, in the 202nd year of the Fourth Era dawned as cold as any other in late autumn. Here in Bruma, the snows had begun to fall, heralding the harsh winter yet to come. Though, for a time, the snows had subsided, the sun had not shone through the clouds long enough to melt the snow. So it was that Crixus had to borrow an extra set of clothes to go over his own as he left that morning, to keep out the cold. The highlands were not protected from the harsh winter chill, and he had a long road ahead of him. With the horse he had been given from the Count's stables, he mounted up and left the castle-yard.

But he did not go immediately eastward. Instead, he rode to the North Gate and looked upon the statue which he had ignored the day before when he first arrived. The statue appeared to be of some great knight, with sword lifted in a pose of triumph and shield at side. To his surprise, he noticed that it had been heavily modified over the many years. Around the shoulders, he could see locks of hair that had been part of the original statue, but had been chiseled off at the neck. The original head was missing, replaced with a large kettle-helm that obscured all the features, hiding the original identity. Of a time, the face of Valeria Vulcanis, the Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil, once rested upon this statue, gazing upward as she held her sword to the heavens, defying the hordes of Oblivion. But as the years passed and her memory faded, many in the Empire voiced their dissatisfaction of a purely Colovian heroine being publicly displayed. It was not enough that she was a woman, or that there were many heroes of the lays of Argonians, Khajiit and Dunmer: though they had left the Empire, those of their race that remained demanded that her statue be altered to represent their specific race. The Argonians wanted an Argonian, the Bosmer wanted a Bosmer, the Dunmer wanted a Dunmer, the High Elves wanted an Altmer, the Khajiiti wanted a Khajiit and the Orcs wanted one of their own to defy the 'beautiful' human folk. Therefore the Imperials erased their own history to satisfy what many in the Empire began to refer to as 'correct policy', or the practice of revising and erasing history to suit the fickle whims of the mob.

As Crixus sat there on his horse, gazing up at the statue, he remembered the face that Sheogorath assumed in his time in the Blacklight prison. For a moment, he wondered what she would think of him. She was the kind of hero that he looked up to: not merely because she had served the only human, in his estimation, worthy of being deified, but because she, like he, had arisen from nothing and become a hero without being divinely chosen by prophecy like Llevas Dorvayn or Eirik Bjornsson. But more than that, he was now being told that she was related to him: he never knew his mother, and now Selvia was taken from his life forever by Cassius Urtius. She was the only woman whom he had known for a while, but was not as wicked as Sedris Ulver. Would she have approved of what he was doing for the greater good of the Empire, for himself?

"I don't need the approval of a stone statue," Crixus arrogantly sneered, then turned his horse back southward, to leave the north gate and make his way towards the east gate, towards General Tullius and the culmination of his great plan.

Later that day, Count Edvald in his noble regalia appeared before the people of Bruma, flanked by a battalion of the city guards. He had an announcement to make before the whole city.

"People of Bruma," he began. "As your Count, ordained so by the grace of the Eight, it is in my interest to ensure the stability and enduring security of my county. I have received word that, in confirmation to the rumors we have all heard, there was indeed fire upon Sancre Tor. The Ecumenical Primature has been destroyed. We do not know who started the fire or what their intentions were, but we are convinced that they are still at large. Therefore, until such time as these vandals and brigands have been brought to justice, it is with great reluctance that I now declare this city and the county thereof to be under martial law until further notice." The people began to murmur and whisper their worries and concerns over this news. At this, the Count held up his right hand to silence them.

"There is no cause for alarm," he said. "The activities of the city are permitted to carry on as before. No businesses will be closed, no services will be denied. We are merely seeking to find the ones responsible for burning down the most sacred church complex on Sancre Tor. Once they have been found and served punishment befitting their grievous crime, the borders will be opened once again and free traffic to and from the city of Bruma will commence. Believe me when I say that no punitive measures will be taken against the people of Bruma in this time. The martial law is only to find and apprehend the outlaws who destroyed Sancre Tor."

Most of the people gathered mumbled in approval at what was said. But there was one person present who was not pleased with this. From the terrace before the castle yard, Lysa went at once back to Agnar's house in the south of town, among the ram-shackled, tumbled-down shacks in which the Nords were forced to live. The password had changed, but she knew what it had been changed to, and spoke the safe word and was allowed entrance. Down the stairs she went, where she found Hjoldir and Agnar waiting. She shared with them all that she had heard about the curfew.

"It's a trick," Hjoldir said. "They want to keep us under their power. Under their watch. I say what I said last night: have we not come to the point where arguing is of no further use? Words will not save us anymore, we must fight!"

Lysa sighed. "Yes, we must fight. But not here, not in Bruma. We are too few in number and the Legion will stand for the Count if we strike." She groaned, wiping the snow from off her feet on the bottom stair. "Gods, now do we miss the Sons of Skyrim more than ever."

"We cannot regret their choice to leave Bruma for Skyrim, girl," Agnar stated, shaking his head. "They have chosen their fate, and if it is true what they have said about the rebellion failing, then they have a better lot than all of us, drinking with the gods in Sovngarde."

"Would that we could have done the same," Hjoldir grumbled. He had been of age when war broke out in Skyrim, but remained behind with his father Agnar to support and care for him in his old age. But he was young and full of the vigor of youth, eager to write a name for himself, such as the great heroes of old.

Lysa also yearned to fight and make a name for herself. But there was yet another reason she yearned to go to Skyrim. Some years ago, a young man living in Bruma had caught her eye. This man had been part of the original Sons of Skyrim, the group in Bruma that had fought against Ansvild's enforcement of the White-Gold Concordant and the tyranny of Edvald. When Ulfric Stormcloak rebelled against the Empire, many of them fled back to Skyrim to fight in the war: this young man had been one of them. What happened to him, whether he had been caught at the border and killed, or whether he had crossed over and died on the road, or if he had joined the rebels and died fighting the Empire, or if he was still alive to this day, Lysa did not know.

"The Sons of Skyrim have gone," she spoke at last, a twinge of sadness in her voice. "We who remain must decide what to do in response to this martial law."

"And what do you propose we do?" Hjoldir asked.

"Get as many people out of Bruma as we can," she replied. "If the Count is the one declaring martial law, we all know that it is mischief against us that is his goal, not hunting down some brigands. The storm-clouds are gathering, we must not wait for the thunder to strike."

"Aye, girl," Agnar nodded. "Get them out of here, lead them to safety."

"Lead?" she asked. Though she was respected among the people of Bruma, those Nords who had not bowed the knee to Edvald's tyranny, she had been content with letting Agnar, the elder, lead. "You're our leader, you're the heart and soul of our people in Bruma. I could never be that."

"Now, you are," Agnar said, gesturing for Lysa to approach him. She did and he placed his old, gnarled hands on her head and right shoulder. Hjoldir bowed his head in respect.

"Blessed Kyne," he muttered in prayer. "Strengthen this thy daughter in our hour of need. Let her not falter on the path that lies ahead of her."

"Of me?" Lysa interjected. "But you're coming with us, aren't you?"

"I am an old man," groaned Agnar. "And my place is here in Bruma. I have not the strength to earn my way to Sovngarde. But you do."

"If you stay," Hjoldir said, a tear in his eye. "Then I stay with you."

"Don't talk nonsense, my boy," Agnar replied. "You must go with her."

"Don't worry about us, Lysa," Hjoldir said to the young woman. "I'll make sure we get out. You just make sure the others get to safety."

Lysa nodded, then turned away. She had much to do and had to do so immediately: who knew when the hammer of Edvald's tyranny was to come down upon the Nords of Bruma.

* * *

At evening of that day, Crixus came at last to Fort Horunn in the dead of night. He had ridden hard and fast over trackless paths in the mountains, coming at last to the edge of the brown lowlands where the snows failed and brown, late summer trees rose out of the land. There was a great host at the fort and camped in the lands around it, and the night watchmen saw Crixus' approach. He introduced himself as a legate of the Red Legions, and asked to be brought before General Tullius. As he was not in his uniform, and the guards had only his word to go on, they bound him with ropes and kept him a store-room in the fort until morning.

When morning came, the Legionnaires took Crixus from his cell and to the command tent in the courtyard of the fort. Here he saw General Tullius seated before a map with several other commanders in steel armor lined with fur. The guards presented Crixus to him, and he recognized him and told the soldiers to remove his binds.

"You certainly have a knack for showing up in odd places at odd times," General Tullius stated. "The last thing I remember, you were going to stay in Skyrim, to help Governor Rikke keep the peace. That was what we agreed upon before we left for Windhelm. Were we not in agreement that the Thalmor would capitalize on the chaos caused by the Nord rebellion?"

"Yes, that we were," Crixus replied. "Have you not heard of what happened in Solitude?"

"Yes, I heard about what happened," the General replied. "And I have my own reasons for being unable to send aid to Jarl Elisif. My job was to put down the rebellion, and that's what I did: the less time I have to spend in that savage, gods-forsaken country, the better. And I was not free altogether either."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked.

"Count Edvald insisted that I remain here in Bruma," he explained. "Apparently there's been some unrest in this county, what with the rebellion and all. We were all in danger of another rebellion if the Nords try something again. The Legion is the only thing keeping the provinces from falling into barbarism and lawlessness, especially in Skyrim, as you well know. But me..." He groaned. "...I'm tired. I'm an old man, older than you are, though I don't have the good fortune of never aging." Crixus winced at this.

"So what happens now?" Crixus asked. "What do you intend to do?"

"As soon as we're done here in Bruma," he said. "I intend to return to the Imperial City. There is to be a triumph in my honor for putting down the rebellion: in the Weye Promenade, no less. It would be good to retire to the Cerunian District, or even a nice little villa in the Old City, with no more Nords to worry about."

"I'm afraid that won't happen for a long while, sir," Crixus replied. "I have bad news from the west. It appears that Count Edvald's fears are justified. The Nords of Bruma are planning something. They burned the Primature on Sancre Tor in defiance of the White-Gold Concordant, and now they're planning on usurping the Count's power."

"Ah, I see you've been fraternizing with the Count," Tullius stated. "Trust me, whatever he told you about them, it wasn't the first time. He regaled me over and over with plot after plot, conspiracy after conspiracy: from private cells of rebels under the streets of Bruma to wild Nord clansmen in the woods and hills of Bruma, plotting to slaughter the elves of Cheydinhal. I've heard it all. There's no evidence that any of these accusations are true."

"Sir," Crixus interjected, speaking very firmly. "Do you trust my word?"

"You're a soldier of the Red Legions, and a loyal one at that," Tullius replied. "I have no reason to doubt your word."

"Why would I lie to you in this matter?" Crixus asked. "You know that I am _not_ one to exaggerate or hide the truth for _any_ reason. Gods, didn't you get the letter I sent you?"

"Letter?" General Tullius asked. "You sent me a letter?"

"Yes!" Crixus replied nervously. "It told you everything that I've learned, what the Nords have been up to in Bruma lately. It was my introduction, you should have known that I was coming..." He ran his hand over his head, the short hairs bristling beneath his fingers. He was now truly concerned: why did General Tullius not receive the letter? Had the raven been intercepted? By whom? Animists did not live this far north, as far as he knew. His mind instantly leaped to the worst case scenario: the Nords found it and even now knew what he was about to do.

"Gods, they have it now," Crixus breathed.

"They?" Tullius asked. "The Nords?"

"Yes!" Crixus replied. "They know we're onto them, they'll strike first before we're ready."

"What?"

"General," Crixus spoke. "You know that I'm trust-worthy and loyal. I would never ask you to follow a lead which I didn't believe to be credible with my whole heart. Something's going to happen here in Bruma, something big. The Nords are planning a coup, they want to depose Count Edvald."

"Do you have any evidence?" the General asked.

"Yes!" Crixus replied. "I was at a meeting, where I overheard prominent members of the Nord community of Bruma plotting to overthrow the Count." It was all hearsay and circumstantial evidence, but in Crixus' mind, the truth of his evidence didn't matter as long as the outcome, the fulfilment of his plan, came to pass.

Tullius sighed, then rubbed his temples. "Very well. What is it you had in mind?"

"I need two companies," Crixus stated. "One company will guard all the roads south of Bruma from this fort to Sancre Tor. We can't let the rebels escape south into Cyrodiil, or we'll never find them."

"What about the other company?" Tullius asked.

"That I will need to come to Bruma," Crixus stated. "To handle the rebels. Can I count on your support in this matter?"

Tullius rose from his seat. "Because of your outstanding service to the Empire, I will not only follow through with your plan, I will give you command of the second company. I'll be content to guard your rear while you win glory and honor this time, since I won the honor and glory for defeating the rebels. First things first, though."

"Yes, sir?" Crixus asked.

"You'll need a uniform," General Tullius grumbled, crossing his arms.

* * *

The rest of that day was spent gathering up the Legions and moving out from Fort Horunn. They only made it half-way to Bruma, coming to an old shrine that had been abandoned with the coming of the Legion. Crixus was now asleep in his own tent, fully equipped in Legion armor, gear and armed with a gladius once again. He felt invincible again, such as he had not felt since he was captured by the Penitus Oculatus. He could not sleep for the sheer excitement. At last his plan was to be carried out, he would send his message and at last avenge himself upon the Nords that had ruined his life. In the morning, he would order his troops to march twice as fast, hoping that they would arrive on the outskirts of Bruma to begin setting up.

There was little wine or mead to drink, and he fell asleep in his military cot, feeling as though Bruma might as well be on Akavir. But this night he dreamed, and such a dream it was that he never forgot it, no matter how hard he tried. Ever after it remained in his mind and returned to memory every time he saw what lay between a woman's legs.

In his dream, he saw himself in a graveyard, with stone graves made in the Colovian style. There was a light frosting of snow upon everything, which gave the burial place and eerie beauty. Kneeling down at one of the graves, he wiped away the snow but saw no name engraved thereon. As he was thus pondering, the smell of a thousand rotting corpses wafted in the cold, night's air, as if the bone-lords of Morrowind and draugr of Skyrim were roused from their graves. He looked about and saw a dark shadow slowly approaching him from the trees on the edge of the graveyard.

At first he believed it to be Hermaeus Mora, for the dark, shapeless shadow reminded him of the daedric lord of knowledge. But from the shadow a shape took form and strode forward, turning the snow to writhing, oozing black pus with each step. The shape appeared as a woman, petite of form and pale-skinned with hair as white as the snow. From the hips down, though, the resemblance of a human form ended: her bottom half moved like legs within a dress, slowly and gracefully, but there was nothing graceful or even leg-like about the bottom half of this apparition. At the hips it appeared as if the lower half had died, rotted and was now a writhing, wriggling mass of maggots, roaches, spiders, fleas, rats, black pus and every manner of loathsome creeping thing imaginable and a few unimaginable as well. In her lap, where the sex usually lay, there instead lurked six large pincers like the limbs of an insect, huddled as if in preparation to strike.

Crixus could barely speak, his eyes fixed on the apparition's pincers though it was in the hideous, rotten half.

"Wh-What are you?" he breathed.

When the voice spoke, it seemed to speak both with the voice of a Colovian noblewoman and with another, deeper, darker voice, one that reminded him too much of the winged terror.

"I am the Great Darkness of the Scuttling Void," spake the daedric prince. "Ring-Giver and Lady of Decay. You have stolen from my many children, a thing which I cannot abide."

_Gods, please, save me!_ Crixus whispered. They alone knew how many beggars and blind men he had robbed during his time in Skyrim. It had been nothing to mock those who showed him mercy, for he believed that their mercy outweighed their vengeance. But now he stood before a daedra, a lord of the ones that had sought to break him.

"I am the one that waits for you in the darkness," the daedra continued. "With open arms. You were ripped from my grasp before, but soon you will be brought into my arms, as befits all of mortal-kind." With that, she extended one of her bare, white arms before him.

"Have you ever seen what happens to those who enter my embrace?" it asked. "Many fools have sought to stave me off for as long as they could, but their efforts are in vain. Oh, but the many you have brought into my arms have been broken and bloodied in a manner most...beautiful." At this, the work of a year's worth of rot happened to that pale arm in the matter of a few moments.

"How will you come to my arms?" she asked. "Only time will tell. But, in time, all fair things enter my arms."

The hideous apparition began to approach him, its pale flesh turning black and hideous wings growing from its back, then its face transforming into the dried, dessicated corpse of the Night Mother. The empty eyes were filled with red light: then he watched with horror as a pale-gray Dunmer corpse rose up out of a grave somewhere in Anvil, hands reaching for his neck. He could hear words spoken as well.

"_You've brought the lost lamb back into the fold,_" the familiar voice said. "_Your Mother is truly pleased. Take comfort in the knowledge that, even upon the Ruby Throne, my voice will always remain in your ear._"

With that, Crixus awoke in a cold sweat and could not go back to sleep for the rest of that night. Yea, he was the first one awake besides the night watchmen and ordered those under his command to rise up and leave ere the dawn. Once the Legions were up and had eaten, Crixus ordered them to march at double-pace to reach Bruma before nightfall. He was determined to see his plan carried out no later than the twenty-fifth of Sun's Dusk. For too long it had been postponed, living only as a dream, a wish in his heart with no chance of ever being realized.

Yet in all those long months in Skyrim, it had come into being in Crixus' mind and had been carried out at least once by his actions. The Nords deserved to pay for the actions of their ancestors, which he believed were still being carried out in the name of Talos, Ysgramor, Ysmir the Grey Spirit or whatever other thing they held sacred. Therefore, when he was still a subordinate, he dreamed of the improbable day when the daedra would cause an earthquake and send all of Skyrim, from the Jerall Mountains to the sea, tumbling into the Sea of Ghosts, taking all the troublesome, barbaric Nords with it.

But now he was the Emperor. His desires suddenly took on new light. He would have to set an example to the Nords that they could not rebel without retribution. He had to break the Nords, the way the Miracle of Peace broke the Orcs: prevent a genocide against the Dunmer, as Edvald believed, and kill off any who the Grey Spirit might use to destroy him. But, in lieu of a Dragon Break, he could only do so by the means which he enjoyed the most: war. Then he heard what Arcadia Valga had to say on the matter and it went to heart. Breaking the Nords was not enough, he had to erase their race from the face of Nirn, bring their dead ancestors to grief by watering down the white race of the North until it was no more.

That evening, exhausted and chilled, they made camp outside of the walls of Bruma. Crixus had his soldiers work all night, cutting down trees and building cages made out of wooden pickets. Many pits were dug, some of them only a foot or so deep, others more than ten feet down and requiring ladders to access. Crixus ordered the men to empty the supplies out of each cart and wagon and place them into the shallow pits, which were then packed with snow and dirt to keep during the night. As for Crixus himself, he could not sleep yet again. The dreams of the previous night and what was to happen this morning were too great for him to sleep. He sent a rider into the city and had Gorak and his Orsimer cohort brought out into the camp. With them was another Orc, clad in heavy furs and a cloak to keep out the cold.

"Who is this with you?" Crixus asked, for the other Orc approached Crixus at Gorak's side.

"This one said he knew you, sir," Gorak replied. In the light of the torch held by one of the soldiers attending him, Crixus saw the other Orc's face, a white death-mask painted upon it.

"Garnag," Crixus greeted. "What brings you here? I thought I left you back at Cloud Ruler Temple."

"That you did," Garnag replied. "But I was permitted to leave."

"You were permitted to leave?" Crixus asked, a little concerned at this revelation.

"I bring word from Tiraa Vilenis of the Order of the Lamp," Garnag stated. "She found me and told me to find you and implore you to go to Cheydinhal, to join the Shield of Hlaalu in their struggle against House Sadras."

"Well, you're an assassin, not a messenger boy," Crixus replied. "If Tiraa wanted to ask me something, she should have simply told me herself."

"I also have things to tell you," Garnag stated.

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "Well, then, out with it."

"Secret words," Garnag said. "Words not fit for..." He eyed the soldier with the torch, then Gorak, then turned back to Crixus. "...present company."

Crixus sighed, then turned to Gorak. "Get your cohort ready. At midnight, we move into the city. I want you to take charge of the companies I send in, for I'll be going at once to the keep to tell the Count of my plan. We've come so far, we cannot afford to fail."

Gorak saluted. "Long live the Empire!" Then he bellowed out orders to his cohort and led them into the camp. Once they were moving in, Crixus and Garnag walked aside, leading a narrow trail in the snow away from the camp, and spoke when they were well without hearing range.

"If you are indeed the Listener," Garnag stated. "Then why haven't you been giving me any missions? Why have there been no kills?"

Crixus chuckled. "Stay here in the camp, and there will be enough to satisfy even a Dark Brotherhood assassin."

"Is this the request of lord Sithis and the Night Mother," asked Garnag. "Or of yourself?"

"I received her voice last night," Crixus stated. "Trust me, I speak for her. In time, there will be more messages, contracts made, the Black Sacrament received. I cannot be Listener for Skyrim and Cyrodiil! If anything, I suggest that, after we are done here, you go north to the Sanctuary in Dawnstar, and you will find the Dark Brotherhood flourishing. Perhaps, then, you will find the answers you seek. For my part, I have a life to live that is beyond Sithis and the Night Mother."

Garnag grumbled, but made no immediate response. Crixus' words made no sense to him: there was no life beyond the Night Mother and the Dark Brotherhood.

* * *

About midnight, the doors of every house in Bruma belonging to Nords were knocked upon violently. Naturally the first response was to open the doors. What they found before their doors were soldiers in the garb of the Imperial Red Legions. They ordered all the Nords in each house they stopped at to leave as they were, taking no food, supplies or clothes. Those who tarried due to sickness or age were dragged out by the Legion. Those who were taken out of their homes were placed in carts and wagons, and told to keep quiet as the soldiers went into their houses, looking for any who might be in hiding. In time, the carts were filled and the soldiers ordered them to be taken out of the city. But this did not deter the Legion on their task: they began driving the Nord people out of the town in long lines, on foot and many with no shoes on their feet in the freezing snow.

In the house of Agnar, one had been kept busy since the twenty-second of that month. Over three days time, Lysa had been secreting people out of Bruma by way of the old sewers that ran underneath the city. From there, they gathered in a small cave, dressed as warmly as they could afford and with as much food as they could carry. About three hundred and eighteen she had managed to secret, slowly over a matter of three days. No more than two at a time with Lysa leading them through the tunnels to the caves. At night, larger groups could be afforded to pass through, but always with utmost secrecy so as to not be heard in passing. Many went bare-foot, or with their shoes bound in rags to muffle the noise of their footsteps.

During all of that time, Lysa had eaten only enough to keep up her strength. And in hurrying the people out, she had worn herself out almost to exhaustion. So it was that, as soon as she returned after delivering the last batch, she passed out and fell asleep in the entrance of the tunnel. Hjoldir, who was staying up late with the old man, went down into the basement to fetch him a drink of mead from a barrel they had stored there. The barrel, which was rather large, was used to cover the hole in the back of the basement which led to the cellar. As he knelt down to fill the cup, he saw her lying on the ground.

In that moment, the Legion came knocking at their door. Hjoldir, who feared the worst of the Count for his tyranny against the Nords, immediately and rightly suspected the worst. He had grown up with Lysa in Bruma and loved her as dearly as any other, and he feared what would happen once the Imperials got into their house. He descended the ladder going down into the sewer tunnel as swiftly as he could and roused her awake.

"Lysa, wake up!" he whispered. She groaned, rolling over in her sleep. With trepidation building up inside of him, Hjoldir shoved her forcefully. At last her eyes blinked open.

"Oh, Hjoldir," she said. "I'm glad you're here. What time is it?"

"A little after midnight," Hjoldir said. "But there's no time. The Count has sent his men to punish us, as I always knew he would. You have to get out of here!"

"What?" she asked, leaning up from where she lay. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain of it!" he returned. "You have to go, now!"

"What about Agnar?" Lysa asked. "You have to get him out of here!"

Hjoldir heard the knock resound faintly from the top of the stairs, his hands shaking. "Don't worry about him," he said. "I'll get him out of here, just go!"

Lysa scrambled to her feet, then went back down the tunnel she had been traveling for the past three days. Meanwhile, as the pounding on the door grew more fierce and determined, Hjoldir clambered out of the sewer tunnel and dragged the heavy barrel over the hole. Once it was secured, he ran back up the stairs, only to find Agnar hobbling to the door, key in the lock, and opening it before he could cry out.

Day finally dawned as the Legion concluded the process of dragging out of Bruma every Nord they could find. They were then brought out into the Imperial camps and placed into the makeshift prisons the Legion had constructed. All through the night, the soldiers of the Red Legions watched with fear and worry as Nords and only Nords were being dragged from their homes, carted out or forced to walk through the cold of the morning into the camps. Though there were some among Tullius' men who were from Cyrodiil or High Rock, the Elder Council finally relenting on their ban of sending reinforcements to Skyrim to aid in the rebellion - motivated doubtless by Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador - the majority of those present here were Nords who had grown up in Skyrim, tended their farms in Whiterun, hunted game in the forests of Falkreath, trapped animals in Hjaalmarch, fished off the coast of Haafingar or had family who were killed by the Forsworn when they took the Reach. In their eyes was worry and concern over what was transpiring before them, and many were clutching beneath their Legion armor amulets of Talos, whispering silent prayers.

At last Servius Crixus appeared, standing before Gorak gro-Shagk and his Orc cohort, with Garnag at his side. He stood before the wooden prisons where all the Nords were kept. A smile was on his face, such that would have made even Idolaf Battle-Born shiver with disgust. At his right hand was Count Edvald, who was also beaming widely, and Ondolemar with a group of Thalmor justicars: at Edvald's feet was Idolaf, dressed in rags with an iron collar about his neck, to which was tied a chain held by the Count's guards.

"People of Bruma," Crixus spoke. "As you all may have known, your city was placed under martial law as we sought out the perpetrators of the destruction of Sancre Tor. I, Servius Crixus, Commander of the 9th Legion, am sad to say that the culprits have evaded Imperial justice. But no matter, we will give them a perfect and fearful example, one that will tell them that the Empire of Cyrodiil will not be fucked with. As such, you will all pay for their crimes."

At once, those in the cages cried out with many voices: "No! Please!", "Have mercy!", "This is a mistake!", "We're not rebels!", "We don't even worship Talos! Why are the Thalmor here?"

"Silence!" Crixus shouted, holding up his hand. He then gazed at each and every one of the people before him. A chuckle escaped his lips. "You think I care about whether you worship a false Breton god? No, you will all pay for the crimes of your race. Throughout our history, the white Nord have stolen land that belonged to others, just as you have stolen Bruma from the Nibenese." More protests rose up, with many claiming that their families had lived in Bruma since before the Oblivion Crisis.

"Therefore," Crixus continued. "Just as you have taken land that was not yours, all your lands and properties are now forfeit to the Count, their rightful owner." He gestured to Edvald, who nodded, a smug smile on his face. Crixus, however, kept his eyes on those before him. "The white Nord have slaughtered men, women and children of all races, defiling the flower of Colovian and Nibenese beauty with their foul seed. Therefore, every man, whether newborn or elder, shall be put to death in full view of their families..." More cries and pleas for mercy came from the people in the cages, and many Nords in the Legion began looking this way and that.

"Sir!" Gorak spoke. "Permission to speak freely."

Crixus chuckled, then turned to Gorak, a furtive look in his eyes. "What is it now?"

"Who are these people that they must die?" Gorak asked. "They're beautiful, yes, but what have they done that warrants death?"

"Besides being Nords?" Crixus asked in reply. "Nothing, really. It's necessary."

"Sir!" Gorak continued.

"If a man is sick," Crixus retorted. "Sometimes a cleansing purge is needed. It tastes like shite and goes against his stomach, but it will do him good."

"But these are not a mere case of Ataxia or Rockjoint," Gorak interjected. "These are people! Men, women, children!"

"Just where do your loyalties lie, Orc?" Crixus demanded.

"I am a loyal servant of the Empire, sir!" Gorak retorted. "A soldier in the Red Legions."

"And what is your duty as a soldier of the Red Legions?" Crixus demanded. Gorak did not immediately answer. Then Crixus, who had faced Nords and was, in his own words, death incarnate, got into Gorak's face and shouted at the top of his lungs: "_**What is your oath, soldier?!**_"

"'Upon my honor,'" Gorak recited, looking straight on and not at Crixus. "'I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire. May those...'" He paused.

"Finish it," Crixus whispered.

"'May those above judge me,'" Gorak slowly replied, his lower jaw quivering. "'And those below take me, if I fail my duty.'"

"And are you prepared to disobey a direct order from your Emperor and your superior officer?" Crixus asked. "I thought you were a man of loyalty."

"I am no man," Gorak grumbled. "And my loyalty is without question!"

"Then shut the fuck up," Crixus replied. "And do your duty." Crixus turned about and watched as two soldiers brought a middle-aged Nord man from the prison bars before him. He stood tall, taller than Crixus, and kept his lower jaw clenched and his head held high.

"Very good," Crixus said to the soldiers. "I do appreciate promptness." He then turned to the Nord man. "Kneel." The man refused. "I said kneel." Crixus clarified, but still the large man refused to obey.

"_Kneel!_" Crixus shouted, placing his hand upon the man's shoulder and trying to force him down onto his knees. But he was the size of Torgrim Stone-crusher and could not be forced, not even by Crixus' strength. He then gestured to a torturer with a whip of many iron tongues, who lashed the Nord man until he collapsed to his knees. Once more Crixus was smiling as he turned to those looking on in horror.

"I want you all to know," he said. "That there will be no sovereign-guard for any of you. Well, aside from the fact that your gods don't exist, I won't let you put up a fight. You will face your death on your knees, or we will break you until you kneel, then we'll kill you." At this, he drew out his gladius and put it to the man's throat, then paused, looking down at him.

"Something doesn't feel right," Crixus muttered. Then he looked into the cage where the Nord man came from and smiled yet again. "Thank you, Arcadia," he whispered beneath his breath.

"But of course!" he exclaimed loudly. "We forgot about the women! Certainly can't do that, can we? They make up half of your population, don't they?" He gestured to two of Gorak's Orcs to come forward and bring the man's wife and teenaged daughter out of their cages to stand before him in his sight.

"The life of any race," he said. "Lies in the bowels of their women, is that not right? Oh, but your white race is an evil one, guilty of many crimes, taking women against their will, raping captives of any race. Therefore, it is only fitting that we should punish your women in kind." He then gestured to the Orcs. "Do you see these proud specimens before you? Fierce, brutish, mighty, loyal: a true warrior race. Every woman of your race, who has at least reached the age of thirteen, shall be coupled with an Orc, and be kept alive to carry their child to term. In this way your many generations of pure, white Nord heritage, passed down to you all from your fathers, grandfathers and sires all the way back to Ysgramor, shall be destroyed. We will breed you out of existence and into Oblivion!" He then turned to the Orcs. "Fuck these women."

"No!" Gorak shouted in countermand. "You're not obligated to obey this order!"

"The fuck they aren't!" Crixus retorted. "They are under _my_ command and they will do as _I_ say!"

"They're my Legions, Crixus," Gorak retorted. "And I won't have this happen. This is madness! You remember the many brave Nords who fought with us in the 9th Legion!"

"If you disobey my orders," Crixus stated. "I will have you executed for treason!"

"You're welcome to try," Gorak returned with a growl. "I don't think Eld would find my death to her liking."

Crixus grimaced. Gorak had just threatened him with being killed by his giant wife, but Crixus had no desire to kill Gorak. He was a good Orc, and loyal to a fault. In every matter he had performed admirably, always obeying orders without question. Now, it seemed, that he took umbrage at punishing the Nords for their crimes. But Crixus was not about to be denied: it angered him that his Legion friend refused to help him, but even though he wouldn't raise his hand against him, he was not about to go back on his threat. Crixus turned to Garnag.

"You have no choice, do you?" Crixus asked. "I could tell them you're with the Dark Brotherhood. I can say that you killed the Emperor."

"What are you saying?" Garnag grumbled.

"Fuck them," Crixus said. "Starting with the youngest one."

Garnag made no response as he removed his fur cloak and approached the young Nord girl, pawing at her hair as he took position behind her. Before he began, Crixus spoke to him.

"In the cunt, if you don't mind," he clarified. He then turned to those around him. "And make sure her father, mother and children are watching this. If they close their eyes, you force them open, do you hear?"

With one hand on her neck, Garnag tore open the young girl's dress and forced himself inside. Crixus' eyes were wide open, feasting on the father's aghast eyes, filled with tears, and hearing the mother try to talk her daughter through, if only to be there for her in such a horrible time. It felt good to Crixus to see their shocked look on their faces, to know that they felt as he felt when he saw his goddess being raped by one of these white Nord apes. Edvald licked his lips as he watched the teenaged girl being forced and cried out to Garnag: "Do rip off her clothes, why don't you? Yes, let her whole family see the shame of her nakedness!"

At his feet, Idolaf Battle-Born, usually mocking of the cries of his people who refused to accept the Imperial way, was gazing on with horror. He had been ashamed of his ancestry and had only joined the Empire because father said it was the right thing to do, and because he wanted to kill those savages who dared defy the Empire. Now he saw with his own eyes the Empire which he respected and worshiped reduced to the savagery which he believed his people to have possessed. Then he remembered grinning and laughing as Clan Grey-Mane, who he once knew and loved like family, butchered before his eyes. He remembered being as this Orc had been, riding Jordis like a whore and laughing at her cries.

"What have I done?" he gasped.

As if in answer, he saw before him the ghost of Eorlund Grey-Mane, a grim scowl upon his face.

"Blood-traitor," the ghost said. "Kinslayer, oathbreaker and murderer: it has only just begun."

* * *

Imperial scholars never spoke of this horrible affair. Gorak gro-Shagk was sworn to silence and Edvald swore before any who asked that nothing happened between the twenty-fifth and the twenty-eighth of Sun's Dusk in the 202nd year of the Fourth Era. Even if they were not, the lives of four thousand Nords were not considered worthy of note, especially since officially Nords were the cause of the Stormcloak rebellion. But there were some who deserted General Tullius' Red Legions to return home, shocked and aghast at what they saw. These brought tidings back to Skyrim that the Empire had slaughtered almost all of the Nords of Bruma.

Worst yet, Lysa, who had managed to flee to safety, waited for many hours in the tunnels beneath Bruma, searching for some sign of Hjoldir and Agnar. When they appeared not, she tried to go back into the house through the tunnel, but found the trap-door was blocked. She then doubled back and went up through the caves, wrapping herself in a heavy fur cloak and covering herself with her hood to hide her sight. Perhaps Kyne was with her, for she passed through the forests undetected and came at last within sight of the Imperial Legion's camps and saw with her own eyes the horrors going before them. She saw Servius Crixus standing before the Count and heard the Count congratulate him by his right name. She saw men, old and young, forced to watch as their women were violently raped by large Orcs. Many of the younger ones did not survive, but those who did were ushered into the wooden holding cages and their hands bound away from their bodies. Then, once these atrocities had been committed, she saw the men put to death. Hjoldir had stood defiant until the end, when his knees were broken and the one named Servius Crixus drove a dagger through his throat. Agnar was flayed alive with iron-toothed whips and fell into a quivering, bloody mess, shaking and shivering until at last, bowed, bent and broken, he died.

So it was that she ran back into the caves and, wiping her red, burning eyes of the tears, led the three hundred and eighteen survivors out of the caves and into the west. She had hoped to hide them in the hills and valleys thither, then slowly make their way across the border to Skyrim. Instead of going directly north, which she feared would be watched, she decided to lead them away from the city, so that any who might follow them would be thrown off the trail.

That evening, after a long day of travel, she made her way into the hills and saw, with her own eyes, Cloud Ruler Temple upon a hill. Ever since the Great War with the Dominion, at whose beginning she had been born, that place had lain empty: now she saw smoke rising from it. People were there, people who feared not the Legions who might see them. Though, of a certain, such could also be bandits, she was growing desperate. The supplies, such as they had, would not last them very long in the wilderness, especially with the onset of the harsh winter now on the way. Once more, as if guided by the will of the Divines, she made her way to that place. It was dark and the sentries did not notice her approach until she had come up even with the gate.

As the Divines had willed it, this very day Eirik, the leader of the second Sons of Skyrim, that group which he had formed after Ulfric was killed by Athal Sarys, a retainer of House Sadras, was at the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple, arguing with Delphine. He and the Sons of Skyrim had been kept secluded in this place while the others were free to come and go as they pleased. That evening, Arcadia Valga had departed and Eirik, angry at being kept in what was, by any other word, a prison, dared to speak out against this.

"You can't leave this place," Delphine explained. "The Emperor demands it."

"Which Emperor?" Eirik asked. "Crixus? Do you really think _he_ is a good Emperor?"

"He knows what has to be done," Delphine stated. "And, unlike you, he doesn't help the Thalmor by causing chaos in Skyrim."

"A fine piece of work you are, Delphine," Eirik said. "You and your Blades forsook me as soon as another, more suitable, Dragonborn came your way."

"How dare you!" she retorted. "Where would you be without us? You would never have learned the ability to defeat Alduin and save Skyrim, if not all the world, were it not us, for me! And you have the gall to be ungrateful?"

"Dammit, Delphine!" Eirik shouted. "My men are fighters! We belong out there, fighting, not trapped in here like beasts in a cage!"

"Eirik?" a voice out of long time past spoke. Eirik looked and saw a pale, red-haired woman in snow-drenched fur cloak and traveling clothes standing before the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple. When he lived in Bruma, before coming to Skyrim, he had fancied this young woman and had hoped to make her his bride. In another life, he would have remained in Skyrim, not go to fight in the rebellion, and might have married her: but in that world, the World-Eater might now have already eaten his own heart and therefore brought the world to an end.

"Lysa?" Eirik exclaimed. "Shor's balls! I never thought I'd see you again!"

"I thought you'd died in the fighting," Lysa said, approaching the guarded gate. The Blades turned towards her, hands gripping the hilts of their katannas.

"Hold your swords!" Eirik said. "She's of no harm to us." The Blades did not move.

"Gods above, let her in!" Eirik stated.

Delphine acquiesced, mouthing to Eirik "She's your charge", then the two met in a strong, long embrace.

"Eirik, I wish you hadn't gone to Skyrim," Lysa said. "We needed you here in Bruma, now especially more than ever."

"Why now?" Eirik asked.

"There's some terrible thing going on outside of the city," she gasped, still weary from the long, solitary trek through the snow. "The Legions are butchering my people, killing men and children and having Orcs rape the women."

"What?" Petruvius asked. Awakened by the tumultuous exchange between Eirik and Delphine, he and Viator left their rooms and came out to the courtyard. Lysa explained everything she had just now told Eirik.

"No," Petruvius denied, shaking his head. "No, the Red Legions would never do this."

"I saw it with my own eyes, boy!" she retorted. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, no, no one is, Lysa," Eirik interjected. After she had calmed down somewhat, Eirik swallowed hard, then asked the question which he hoped had not the answer he feared that it did. "Who is leading them, Lysa? Tell me, who is ordering this...massacre?"

"Some general, I didn't see his face," Lysa replied. "I did get his name, though. The Count called him Servius Crixus."

Eirik took a step back, anger building up inside him as he slowly, menacingly panted. Them, with a loud oath, he kicked at the snow as his rage finally boiled over beyond the measure of restraint.

"Fuck!" he cried. "Th-That son of a b*tch! Why did I ever think he had changed? He-He's been planning this all along, ever since Skyrim! I just thought they were words, but now..."

"I'm going to have to ask you," Delphine said. "To calm down and return to your quarters."

"I hold you responsible for this, Delphine," Eirik said. "You confirmed him, you made him think he had the right to be the Emperor. Now look what he's done!"

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for all of this," Delphine replied.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Lysa retorted. As she approached Delphine, the two Blades rose to stop her. But Delphine made no response, her eyes trained on Eirik.

"Oh, wait 'till I get my hands on you, Crixus!" Eirik seethed.

"I can't let you do that," Delphine interjected.

"Are you going to stop us, like you did in Riften?" Eirik retorted.

"Crixus is the only one," Delphine stated. "Of the line of the Septims, and the only one who could save the Empire. If you were the Dragonborn Emperor, you'd start a war with everyone and doom us all!"

"And look what he's done!" Eirik retorted. "He's killing the Nords of Bruma to satisfy his own base love for killing Nords, which will only further sunder the Nords from the Empire. How is this not detrimental to the safety of the Empire?"

"He's still the best choice we have," Delphine defiantly retorted.

"Well, then, fuck the Empire," Eirik replied. "I can't believe how blind I was to actually think justice could be found in the Empire." He then stomped off back to his quarters.

"Where are you going?" Lysa and Delphine asked as one.

"To kill your new Emperor," Eirik returned. "He must pay for what he's done."

"I'm afraid it may be too late for that," Viator added.

* * *

Blood, tears and ashes darkened the snows outside of Bruma. Even as the gentle first-snows of the oncoming winter began to fall, they turned black as they settled upon the ground. Nord men, elders, and children both boys and girls, were being butchered wholesale, their blood staining the snow upon the ground as it poured out from where they fell. Some of the parents were forced to see their little ones tossed into large bonfires built by the Thalmor, who laughed as the parents wept and their babies screamed in agony. The great volume of black smoke filled the camp with a foul stench, befouling the faces of those poor women in their cages, forced to stay alive to raise these half-Orcs. Every year that streamed down their soot-covered faces was now black, and the old blood turned black, so that the ground about them was black.

Servius Crixus had personally supervised most of the killing. If this did not break the Nord race, nothing short of complete annihilation would suffice. Though he did secretly wish that it would come to that, his desire to kill was, for a time, sated. Even when the Thalmor burned the Nord babies on their fires and Crixus was reminded of the piles of ashes and skulls in the Imperial City, he did not disuade them from their task. Those skulls had belonged to Imperial children, children who deserved to live: though it went against his own past, he hardened his heart against the Nord children who burned and deafened his ears to their cries.

"Even a beast would cry," he told himself. "If it was being killed to save a tribe of Ashlanders. Those children would have grown up to become monsters, just like their parents. The Empire is safer because of it."

All went according to Crixus' plan on the first day. Then on the second, he heard that several men had deserted. He spoke before the Red Legions, telling them that no one was permitted to leave until their task was done. As Gorak was doubtful about what he was being ordered to do, and Garnag had no authority to command the Red Legions, Crixus often delegated the Count or Ondolemar to personally supervise the slaughter while he remained in his tent, sipping Black-Briar mead and relishing the cries of Nords going to their agonizing, ignominous deaths.

Throughout the second day, Crixus began to feel an itching in his feet to be on his way. He went back out into the killing fields, black with soot and dried blood, and sought out Garnag, who was enjoying himself among the Nord women. Once he had finished his woeful task, Crixus told him to dress himself, then come before him.

"What is it now?" Garnag asked.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Crixus asked.

"I'd much rather kill them," Garnag replied. "I take no pleasure in what I do."

"Well, then, I have another task for you," said Crixus. "We're going to Cheydinhal soon. I need you to deliver a message to my squire, Petruvius, back in Cloud Ruler Temple. Tell him and Delphine that I have ordered them all to come to the western berth before Cheydinhal. The last leg of our great task lies before us."

Garnag did not nod, but rather lifted his eyes towards the east. Thither lay the old Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, which he had abandoned in the twilight of that order. Now they were to be going back: inside, he believed that there Crixus would receive some kind of message from the Night Mother about what he must do to bring back the Dark Brotherhood.

"I will do it," he finally said.

The slaughter continued all that day, with the dead bodies being thrown into the deep pits that had been dug in a great mass grave. Several of the women had managed to get a hand free and, by one way or another, had attempted to kill the child within them. Few actually succeeded and many died in the attempt. Those who were found out were brought back before the Orc soldiers and subjected to their lusts yet again: quite a few died after this as well.

It did not abate even with the coming of night, though Crixus remained in his tent as the sun went down. Garnag had left before noon and was now on his way westward, back to the old Akaviri fort. For now, however, Crixus relaxed in his tent with a bottle of Black-Briar mead. While thus enjoying himself, he heard footsteps outside of his tent.

"Somebody there?" he asked. There was no answer.

Then the sound of footsteps was heard again. Crixus drew his gladius and readied to defend himself. The tent flap was pushed open and, to his surprise and relief, there stood Arcadia Valga, dressed in a heavy cloak, with her armor and battle-dress. Crixus sighed in relief and put his gladius down.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "I didn't send for you."

"I'm here of my own accord," she replied.

"How did you get past the sentries?" Crixus asked. "I have plenty of men guarding the perimeter of my camp. How did they let you in unannounced?"

"I've learned many things in my time at court in Chorrol," Arcadia replied. "The Count was a fair man, but he knew that I had a claim to the throne, and so kept me on a short leash. I've learned how to sneak my way out of the castle if need be."

"Very well, then," Crixus spoke. "Why are you here?"

"I've come...to apologize," she said slowly. "For my behavior. It is not respectful of one who would be our future Emperor."

"Very well, Crixus nodded. "I forgive you."

"Please," Arcadia said, dropping to her knees. "Accept me as your personal bodyguard. Take me into your service. I see no other way of making up for my crass behavior than by submitting myself to you in all things."

Crixus raised his eyes in surprise. It was a pleasant surprise, to be sure: he had always hoped that his followers were of such filial devotion to him that he had to do little for them to throw themselves at his feet, offering their service to him. But, as it was, none had yet done as she was doing. It pleased him, to see her thus submissive and agreeable to him. Therefore, taking up his gladius, he walked over to the kneeling Arcadia and placed the sword upon her shoulder.

"By my right as Emperor of Tamriel," Crixus said. "I name you first of the King's Men. Long may you defend the new line of Emperors that shall come forth through me." He tapped each of her shoulders once with the sword, then placed it back on the table. "Arise, Arcadia Valga, First of the King's Men, and serve me."

What happened next was so swift that Crixus had no time to recover himself, to prepare, or to reach for his sword. As Arcadia was rising, a knife, hidden within her battle-dress, was drawn and thrust into the side of Crixus' armor, where the steel breast-plate did not protect him. Crixus gasped as he felt cold steel tearing through him once again, looking down and noticing that she had stabbed him. He looked up into her eyes, which were welling up with tears.

"B*tch!" he shouted. "How dare you do this to me, after all I've done for you!"

"All you've done?" she breathed. "You brought those savages out of their caves and mud-huts in the North, to poison our beloved Cyrodiil, you wanted to ally with the very people who butchered my family, and you have the balls to say 'How dare _I_'? How dare _you!_"

"B-But all those people out there," Crixus said, gesturing towards the door flap as Arcadia turned the knife in his chest. "I've killed all those Nords, just like you said. They'll never trouble Cyrodiil again!"

"One good deed, no matter how large," she replied. "Does not forgive you of suffering me to stand in the same presence as those dogs you've kept locked up in Cloud Ruler Temple! You dared to make a pact with them, therefore I had no choice but to kill you...for my family."

"Gua..." Crixus tried to shout, but found that his voice was failing him. "G..."

Arcadia drew out another knife and stabbed it into Crixus' other side. Then she took both knives and, careful not to prick herself on them, stowed them back in their sheaths in her battle-dress.

"The first knife," she said. "Was coated with a special paralyzing agent. You won't be able to call for help. The second knife causes blood to flow more...freely. You'll bleed to death in a matter of minutes, with no way of saving yourself or calling anyone to save you. A fitting end for a traitor like you."

"But..." Crixus struggled as he felt his body growing numb. "I...can't di..."

"Wrong," Arcadia replied arrogantly, staring down at him as he collapsed to his knees before her. "Only women can never die."

With that, she turned around and left the tent. Crixus, meanwhile, was trapped within himself, feeling the cold hands of death reaching out to him. There would be no pain this time; he wanted to thank Arcadia for that if he could, if he didn't kill her first. But now all things seemed futile as he fell to the ground in his tent, unable to move. His vision grew blurry and he despaired at the last: he would never see Elisif, uncle Surius, Severus, the rest of the Maro family, or even Aelina ever again. Even now he wished that he could see her, though her face reminded him of that horrible incident. Anyone to be with him here in his darkest hour, to hold his hand as he passed on...

Terror took hold of him. He would pass on, but would he go into Aetherius? He, who had mocked the gods all the days of his life, now truly expected the Divines to welcome him in with open arms. But the rarely-used voice of reason spoke to him that it would not be so. Then, as his mind started to grow hazy, he wondered what would happen to him: would he become a slave of the lords of Oblivion, eternally suffering their punishment in one of their realms, or would he walk under the shadow of Sithis as Lucien Lachance had done; or would he serve as a ghost in the Twilight Sepulchre? Or would his soul be so torn that he would no longer truly exist at all, but only as a faint, tormented whisper, scattered in fragments across the sphere of Aurbis, impotent and helpless?

He saw a dark shape pass before his eyes, but at that time, all was darkness and he had no second glance. His eyesight faded and he knew no more.

* * *

**(AN:)**


	45. Children of the Dragon

**(AN: I'm surprised so many people want Crixus to die. I mean, the fan-favorite _Star Wars_ movie is _Empire Strikes Back_, where the good guys lose. The whole "misunderstood bad guy" trope is still going strong, even though it's been done so many times it's no longer "fresh" and "new", and horrible-ass movies and TV shows like _Would You Rather_ or _American Horror Story_ are still big: so why on Nirn would anyone want the bad guys to lose in this story? Isn't Eirik supposed to be the bad guy, since he's the "white" Nord and a former Stormcloak?)**

**(Anyhow, as you probably guessed from the last story, we're going to have some big flash-back in this chapter where we learn a bit about Crixus yet again.)**

* * *

**Children of the Dragon**

"Well," Crixus sighed. "It's done. And may the Divines have mercy on his soul...and mine."

There was no blood on his hands as he gazed down at the Emperor's body, but he knew of a certainty that his blood was on his hands. The blood of one he considered family: it might as well be Gaius' blood, or Venerius' blood, or that of his dear father Valerius. For a moment he halted, torn between immobility and his filial devotion to the now deceased monarch of Tamriel. The Penitus Oculatus were but a cry away: one word and he could be taken captive by them. He would confess all, save that the Dark Brotherhood had been responsible, taking blame onto himself alone, make up some story to explain his disloyalty, then await the axe as surely as Roggvir had faced his own axe in Solitude but a few months prior. It was no more or less than he deserved.

But that was the easy way, the coward's way. There was yet within Crixus the desire to live, to defy everything, to carry on, even though he had gone places that would have horrified even the young bully from Anvil. He did not have to die here. His task was finished, and the truth would die with him, but he would not die here. Ships were going back and forth from Windhelm and Solitude to Raven Rock: though House Redoran loathed the Empire and its _n'wah_ people, the settlement on Raven Rock was struggling so that they could not afford isolation. He was not far from the Solitude Harbor: he could get back in his boat, stow away onto a ship bound for Raven Rock and hide there until this whole sordid affair blew over.

At last he made his choice. He would live on for himself: not for a weak man who refused to fight against death as he did. Quietly he crept back to the window, clambered out, and got himself back into his boat. By now, however, the mists were fading and he feared that he would be discovered. Putting forth all of his strength, he rowed as hard and as fast as he could until the rocky beach of Solitude appeared on the other side. With no care for what had been stolen that was not his, Crixus let the boat to wander in the bay, unsecured to the shore, as he made his way to the Harbor.

On the very evening when Eirik stood before the Clan Volkihar in their castle, Crixus found a trade ship bound for Raven Rock and stowed away in the cargo hull. The voyage was long and slow, taking two days at sea to arrive at Raven Rock. When at last they made berth, Crixus went at once to the Retching Netch and drowned himself in all the shein, matze, flin and sujamma he could afford (on everyone else's coin, of course). More than once that day and the next, cultists from Miraak's Temple attacked him in his sleep. What sleep he did have was filled with dreams of a dark, eerie library lit with a green light. But he had no idea what this could mean and no one he spoke to answered him: not even Neloth.

"Unless you have more of those Black Books with you, serrah," he replied. "I'm not interested. Now go bother someone else for a change, filthy _n'wah_."

On the evening of the fourth day, after drinking himself into a slurred stupor, Crixus stumbled his way back to his room, wishing that he had a Dunmer woman to warm his bed. They were well-versed in many exotic sexual rituals that were taboo in the Empire, even in Cheydinhal, 'little Morrowind': rituals that would have made the Dibellans blush. Such thoughts preoccupied his mind until, overwhelmed with spirits, he passed out.

When he recovered, he found himself rocking to and fro on a ship. His first thought was that he had been captured and was now on his way to a slave colony. It was not foreign to him: once in his early days at Mournhold, he had been captured and taken to Black Marsh as a slave, and only barely managed to survive the wamma-su infested fens and forests of that place. He reached for his weapons and, to his surprise, found them still on his person: a slave ship doubtless would have confiscated all his weapons, but who would be stupid enough to kidnap him without taking his weapons? Looking around, he saw many figures in dark robes, with hoods pulled down to obscure their faces. One such hooded and robed one, kneeling next to him, removed the hood to reveal a woman with dull red hair, closer to brown. She seemed to be about Eirik's age, though wore it well and still seemed rather fair. Were this any other time, he would have longed to have her go down on his 'spear', as it had been called in the fourteenth of the _36 Lessons of St. Vivec_.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," the woman said.

"Who are you?" Crixus demanded, drawing a knife from his belt. "Where the fuck am I?"

"I am Atia Glavius," she replied. "You are on a ship bound for Windhelm in Skyrim."

"Why am I here?" he asked.

"We've finally found you," Atia replied, a smile on her fair face. "After so many long years, here you are, at last."

"What the fuck?" Crixus gasped. "Look, if you want to fuck me, that's fine by me. I'd rather not be kidnapped, but..."

Atia covered her grin with her hand, then composed herself and continued. "We have been searching you for other reasons, Your Majesty."

"Your...your Majesty," Crixus muttered. "Why do you call me 'Your Majesty?'"

"Because that is what you are, old dragon," she replied.

"What?"

"I am part of the Cult of the Dragon," she began. "For over a century, we have kept a very important secret, one that could save the Empire...or plunge it into chaos and anarchy."

"What secret could possibly be that large and important?" asked Crixus with a chuckle.

"Do you know your ancestry?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," Crixus replied. "All the way back to Longinus Crixus. We were farmers living in the Colovian Highlands, until my great grand-sire met and married Alessia the Unlucky and moved to Anvil."

"Yes, exactly," Atia smiled, refusing to hide her pleasure.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Crixus asked. "Or why I'm here?"

"You are the Last Scion," she said. "The Dragon of the South, so to speak. You are the heir to the Ruby Throne."

Crixus scoffed. "Look, I'm flattered that you've recognized my skills, but I'm no Emperor."

"But you _are_ the Last Scion," Atia replied.

"And exactly what is this Last Scion bull-shite?" Crixus asked.

"It's not bull-shite," she replied. "It's the truth. My order has been keeping secret watch over your family line. It has been hard to discern, but we have at last found the evidence, which all leads to you. Servius Crixus, you are the last living descendant of the Septim blood-line."

Crixus broke out into laughter. "Ah, that was a good one, really. I'm sure to have a good laugh over that later on today."

"It's no laughing matter," Atia said, becoming very grim. "Your family was weak during the Stormcrown Interregnum. They would have been slaughtered had they claimed the throne in such tumultuous times."

"I'm not a fucking Septim!" Crixus retorted. "My family's not related to the Septims. I mean, sure, I'm literate, well-learned, I have experience in combat and I'm Colovian, the same traits as Uriel Septim...and a thousand other men as well!" He shook his head. "This is all bull-shite! I want off, now!"

"Where will you go?" she asked. "Back to your Legions? Will you tell them that you killed Titus Mede?"

Crixus paused, a sudden shiver going through his body. "What the fuck did you say?"

"We know," she said, speaking the same two words that Astrid had spoken in her first note to him. "And we are not disappointed. Titus was weak, unfit to rule the Empire."

"Now that's where you're lying," Crixus retorted. "Titus was a great man! There hasn't been a greater Emperor to occupy the Ruby Throne, not since Uriel Sept..." He trailed off, the recent events still fresh in his mind.

"You know the truth," Atia noted. "I can see it in your eyes, hear the hesitation in your voice. You know that Titus was not what you proclaim him to be. But you can be: the Dragon of the South is yours, Servius Crixus. Take it and restore the Empire to its former glory."

"Just let me off, alright?" Crixus asked. "If you're so keen on calling me Emperor before I have an empire, then you'll obey my commands and let me off this boat bound for the fucking Shivering Isles! You're fucking mad, all of you! I'm no long-lost Septim, you're just seeing things that aren't there: just like the priests, monks and primates of the Eight Divines. Do you hear me?"

Atia nodded, rising to her feet. "We will let you off at Windhelm, as you request. But we will never forsake you. Even in your darkest hour, our order shall watch your path, keeping you from harm. The Dragon of the South is yours and we will not rest until you have returned to your rightful place on the Ruby Throne."

As soon as the ship arrived in Windhelm, they obeyed his request and he instantly disembarked. But, as fate would have it, he found none other than Shaddar al'Malik, his old Legion friend turned corsair, also docked. They were on their way to Riften to recruit and Crixus followed with them for a time...

* * *

Then night settled in and everything became dark once again. All he had known was darkness. Then the darkness broke and faint light began to peer into his cold, dark world. Then the cold faded and there was warmth, such warmth that he had not felt since the touch of his goddess. He wanted to lose himself in that warmth, to never let it be taken from him. Then, almost as soon as it had appeared, he faded back into the darkness and cold. He seemed to be floating in a sea of darkness, unable either to drown or to be rescued.

After a while, his eyes opened and he saw himself in a cold, stone cell, such as the monks, chantries and primates used in their monasteries high up in the mountains. There was a single, high window that let in pale light, but there was no hearth and all was cold. At his side he saw a familiar face, with hood removed and robes hanging loose upon the shoulders, exposing a soft, pale body just barely visible underneath.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Not where you should be, Your Majesty," Atia replied.

"You again," Crixus sighed, his head leaning back against a feather pillow. "Gods, what have I done that you keep popping up into my life?"

"We swore to protect and keep you, Servius," she answered. "And that is exactly what we have done."

"Is...is that so?" Crixus breathed. "The last thing I remember..."

"You had been poisoned by your subordinate," Atia replied. "Janus found you, but your subordinate had already left and you were on death's doorstep. He brought you back here, to our monastery, where we have nursed you back to health."

"Should I be grateful?" Crixus asked.

Atia brought her robes forward, covering herself up against the chill in the room. "You have not fully recovered. We only found the root of the poison last night and were able to draw it out. You are still very weak and cannot travel far. You should lie in bed for three days, then you will be able to be on your feet."

"Can you at least answer my questions?" Crixus asked. "What day is it? Where am I?"

"I already told you, you are in our monastery," she returned. "And it is the morning of the second day of Evening Star, in the two hundred and second year of the Fourth Era."

"But where is your monastery?"

"In the mountains of the east," she replied cryptically. "Now, then, take some rest. You need to recover your strength."

With that, Atia covered herself up and walked out of the cell, closing it behind her and locking it. Crixus called out for her to stay, but to no avail. Once the door was locked, his head fell back onto the pillow and a shiver passed over him. He realized that, twice now, he had come closer to death than ever before. Instead of feeling defiant, he now felt incredibly weak, like a newborn child that cannot fend for itself. Whatever poison Arcadia had put into him left him feeling very drained and weakened, to the point where even touching something felt as though he was touching sharp pins. His hands curled in on himself, shaking and shivering all that day until he fell into a cold, uneasy sleep.

But even that did not last long. Every time he shut his eyes, he could see their faces, looking up at him in horror or begging for mercy. He could hear their voices crying out, explaining how they had accepted the Count's rules and regulations with open arms: they had Imperial names, practiced the local Nibenese culture and neither called upon the name of Kyne or Talos. They had all died just the same, and now they would give him no rest. He saw little of Atia that day, with a mute man in the same black robes that she wore coming in to check on Crixus around noon, changing the chamber-pot and giving him a plate of food. Crixus called out weakly for beer, but there was no answer, neither was any beer, wine or mead given to him. As the evening drew on and the light of the sun vanished from the upper window, another figure appeared in the little cell. He also was hooded, and for a time he spoke not, waiting in the chamber, speaking not to Crixus though he spoke to him frequently. At last, there was a knock at the door and the hooded figure walked over to the side of the door and opened up a peep-hole and inclined their ear thither. They spoke in whispered voices, and the peep-hole was shut before Crixus could rightly discern what was being said. Afterwards, the figure turned to Crixus and removed his hood.

"You have much to answer for, Your Majesty," Janus Hassildor said.

"I'm answerable to no man," Crixus replied. "Or at least I shouldn't be, if I'm indeed to be Emperor."

"There were members of the Cult of the Dragon in Sancre Tor," Janus stated firmly. "Or have you forgotten so easily my invitation? They now lie dead among the ashes of the fire that was upon that hill, the fire that _you_ started."

"Me?" Crixus asked. He was still weak and his head heavy from whatever drug Atia had given him to counteract the affects of the poison. He could remember very little of what happened, mostly in shapes and images: yet his memories were not wholly gone, only clouded by reason of the medicine under whose power he was.

"Fourteen days ago," Janus explained. "The Temple on the Golden Hill was burned with fire, and not everyone was slain in that fire."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Crixus dismissed.

"Whether that is indeed true or not, I cannot say," Janus stated. "What I can say is this: about five days ago, a priest of Akatosh, a servant of the old Primate, arrived in Skingrad, coming to my keep by the secret paths. He told a story about the seventeenth of last month, when the Temple Complex was destroyed. He said that he was taking water from the well for a bath, when he saw a dark shadow passing into one of the monasteries, then came the sounds of doors being sealed shut, and a great clamor from the windows of the brothers and sisters struggling to get free. Then shortly the fire came, starting in one monastery, then quickly spreading to the next, devouring the temples, houses and board-houses. He managed to save one other, a priestess of Dibella, and escaped before the flames reached their fullest fury."

"What does this have to do with me?" Crixus asked.

"They were both of them members of the Cult of the Dragon," Janus replied. "The Dibellan went east, to this place, while the man came to me. He told me of the shadow and what he had seen, which gave me great concern. I left Skingrad and hastened to Bruma, coming at first to Sancre Tor and saw nothing but blackened ruins. During the night, I came to Cloud Ruler Temple and listened to what your servants said. They let slip that you had gone on eastward, towards Bruma. I followed you there and came upon your camp, but too late to stop what went on between your servant. I found you on the brink of death, and as this place was closer, I came hither."

"And what made you think that I was involved in this?" Crixus asked.

"The one who came to this place," Janus stated. "She told Atia that the place burned, but she did not tell of the dark shadow, for she had not seen it. But I have, and we recounted stories to each other. She seemed very distraught over the news I told her, so much that I was surprised. She told me of her first encounter with you, and then I understood her mind: you had burned the Temple of the Golden Hill to the ground."

Crixus rolled over on his side, not answering.

"Is it your purpose to destroy the Faith of the Eight, no matter the cost?" Janus asked.

"Why the fuck should you care?" Crixus asked. "You're a vampire, the Eight hate vampires."

"I understand that the people need their...traditions," he replied, correcting himself before speaking. "Therefore I have kept the Chapel of Julianos in my city. But I would not have any priest or prelate slain: my servants have hunted Benjin Surilie and his bandits for doing the same thing, to little avail."

Crixus said nothing. He was getting weak with all of these questions, and his weakness reminded him fiercely of every moment he had felt weak and impotent. Ever since coming close to death yet again, he felt like a fragile glass ornament, broken or chipped at the smallest exertion of force. One does not cheat death on a regular basis, and he had done so twice. But instead of invincible, he felt weaker than ever. Would he get another chance, the next time a knife was plunged into his body?

"What is it you want, Crixus?" asked Janus.

"In truth," Crixus sighed. "I only want to be left alone, to go back to Newland Hall and drink myself into an early grave, forgetting and being forgotten. But..." He sighed again. "...you all insist that I become Emperor, therefore I must do what I must."

"And you think destroying the Ecumenical Primature will bring you closer to the Ruby Throne?" asked Janus.

"Maybe?" Crixus groaned. "Look, I'm exhausted and I have no energy for your questions." He wanted someone to speak with, but he was still very weary.

There was a strange, angry light in Janus' red-yellow eyes. But he made no answer and did not push his point. He placed his hood back over his head, then opened the peep-hole and whispered out of it. The sound of a lock turning was heard, and Janus turned around to Crixus.

"We've kept watch on you and your family for a very long time, Crixus," he said. "Consider what might happen if we ceased." With that, Janus then made his way out of the cell, locking the door behind him.

Though Crixus was weary, the images that filled his eyes when they were closed kept sleep from him. And this little bit of talking had roused within him the desire to debate. Wherefore, in his head, he continued debating, doing the thinking which was less strenuous than talking. Titus Mede had brought the power of the Church of the Eight under his power with the White-Gold Concordant, therefore his burning of Sancre Tor was an act of similar fashion. He believed that he understood the minds of the people better than anyone else. In their hearts, he saw that they wanted only to be left alone to live as they had lived for centuries. Therefore, as the Empire, weakened as they were after the Great War, accepted every term laid down to them at the beginning by the Aldmeri Dominion, so the independent chapels, chantries and temples of the Church of the Eight and the people would grow weary of attacks from without and throw themselves at his mercy when he assumed the Ruby Throne and offered them peace and security.

But even thinking those thoughts, that the Empire had been weakened, worn out and broken by the Great War, seemed to him a betrayal of his most fundamental beliefs. A long-resisted admittance that there was something wrong with the central government, that something had to be done. In his mind, the Empire was strong, yet they submitted to the Dominion, giving them everything they had asked for at the onset of the Great War. Yet he refused to believe that the Empire was weak, though the circumstances of the above said just that. Now, however, he was admitting to himself that there was something wrong, that something _had_ to be done. It hurt worse than the pain of a thousand knife wounds and, thus wearied, he leaned his head back against the pillow and tried to fall asleep. The horrifying images filled his head, driving sleep from his tired eyes, until at last, wearied beyond belief, he succumbed to weariness and let himself fall into the darkness, inhabited only by the faces of the dead.

* * *

He dreamed that he was once more on the ship, sailing towards a great wall of mist on the open sea. The ship passed into the mist, becoming completely engulfed therein. On either side of the ship, ghastly specters appeared, images from his own life and from lives not his own. He could hear their voices, faint and indiscernible, muttering their dark secrets. A desire came over him to know what they said and to see what they say: but, somehow, he was prevented from doing so. No matter how much he yearned for the sites off the sides of the ship, his view kept being turned towards the bow, as if there was something there more important to be seen. Yet when he did look thither, there was nothing but mist as far as the eye could see.

The next morning, he awoke refreshed, but still otherwise light-headed. He did not see Janus at all that day, but neither did Atia return either at first. In the solitude, he wondered if he would be missed if he tried to leave. After the monk came in with a tray of food, Crixus partook, then tried to get himself out of bed. This he succeeded in doing, but was still light-headed and could not walk without keeping at least one hand to the walls of his cell to support himself. Little did he know that his exercises were being watched. Therefore, in a matter of a few minutes, the door was unlocked yet again. This time Crixus was ready, turned towards the door, ready to make a mad, hobbling dash out as soon as he had the chance. He never had the chance: she who came into the cell was lithe of frame and entered in without pushing the door open very wide, and it was closed before he could move.

"I see that you're strong enough to walk," Atia's voice said from beneath the hood.

"That's right," Crixus returned.

"I presume you will want to be going, then?" she asked.

"If it's not too much trouble," Crixus said.

"Trouble enough," Atia replied. "Janus has said quite a bit about what you've done in Bruma. If you wish to leave, then we must go with you."

"We?" Crixus asked.

"Janus and I," Atia stated. "Janus has to return to his county, which is south and west. As for my part, though I am the heir of the head of my order, my place is with you for the time being."

"Why is that?"

"I..." she stammered for a moment, lowering her gaze. "I can say no more on this subject. I have been thus busy in my absence, else I would have been here to answer your questions, and ask a few of my own."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "I'm surprised you didn't know everything about my business."

"There will be plenty of time later," Atia replied. "For the present, if you wish to go, I will furnish you with clothes, supplies and a carriage for the journey. First let me speak to Janus and prepare my things for the journey."

Atia left the cell, locking it behind her. Less than two minutes later, a servant appeared with Crixus' Imperial Legion gear and cloak: all of these had been cleaned and polished. Crixus had just enough strength to dress himself and gird his loins in his armor. Moments later, there was a knock at the door and the lock was removed.

"I'm ready," Crixus said.

The door was opened and Crixus followed Atia and Janus. The old count was still clad in black, but Atia was draped in a thick fur cloak. Without a word, they led Crixus through a long, dark hall that terminated at a wooden door. That door they opened out into a cold courtyard, similar to the one in Sancre Tor, though less massive. There was snow on the ground as they walked and the air was crisp and clear with gently falling new snow. Crixus breathed in deeply and a shiver passed through him.

"How long was I interred?" asked Crixus. "It can't be the third of Evening Star."

"It is," Janus replied. "You were unconscious for five days."

"Then why all this snow?" Crixus asked. "I thought winter didn't come until the twenty-first of Evening Star."

"That is still eighteen days away," Atia stated. "But an early winter has blown out of the northeast, over two weeks early. There appears to be no abating."

"Will it endanger our journey?" Crixus asked.

"All things are endangered by such heavy snow in Cyrodiil this early," said Atia. "And what journey do we undertake? What path shall we take?"

"We're going to Cheydinhal," Crixus replied. "By the swiftest road."

"The road should take but two days," Atia stated. "But we should make it in three, since our pace must be slower due to your condition."

Crixus wanted to protest, to make some argument that he was stronger than she believed him to be. But he was too weary to make the argument and the cold made his head even heavier. So he climbed into the carriage with Janus and Atia and rested in the back of the cart as it left the monastery in the mountains. So he climbed into the carriage with Janus and Atia and rested in the back of the cart as it left the monastery in the mountains. Crixus noticed that they were up in the Jerall Mountains, possibly a few miles away from the very barricade he had passed during his time in Skyrim. He had hoped he had been able to spend time in Cheydinhal below in the valley, but Miraak's servants had driven him away. As it was, he looked down towards the south to see the purple spires of Cheydinhal, but there was a mist and smoke beyond. The sky was heavy with clouds from the early winter, but there seemed to be clouds as well rising from the valley.

"Such a great storm, and not yet winter," Crixus muttered, gesturing towards the south.

"It _is_ a great storm," Atia replied. "The moth priests say that Skyrim is blanketed in snow, even into the verdant forests of Falkreath. But those smokes you see before you are not the clouds of the early winter. Ever and anon smoke rises from the lowlands of Cheydinhal."

"Strange," Crixus stated. "I've been there many times and have seen no such smoke. It's always fair when I come there."

"Things have changed recently," Janus replied. "Countess Dreyla Sarys, a retainer of House Sadras, has been acting independently of late, ever since the 13th of Sun's Dawn. Ever since then, the valleys and woods of Cheydinhal have been filled with smoke."

The going was slow and there was no clear path from the monastery of the Cult of the Dragon to any main roads on the eastern side of the Jerall Mountains, where they met the Velothi Mountains. Furthermore, Crixus was still very weary and, though he did not say it aloud, he was grateful for their slow pace. There also seemed to be something about Atia, a similar kind of weariness and lethargy that now possessed Crixus, which might also have weighed into their slow pace. But what it was, neither Atia nor Janus told Crixus during the first day of travel. When night finally arrived, Janus kept watch while Atia and Crixus slept. Crixus did not sleep, but did not protest when Atia rested her soft head on his chest to sleep. Eventually, as with the previous night, weariness drove him once again into the darkness of sleep and the images that followed. The dream, however, was still the same one. The boat was still in the fog, going forward into its depths, eager for what lay beyond. And, as with the night before, he did not see what lay beyond before he awoke or the dream ended.

The next day was very much of the same, slow going through trackless snowy drifts. At this point, Crixus feared that they might never reach Cheydinhal in a timely manner. But, despite his Colovian proclivity for warmer climes, the cold air was doing him good and he felt cramped more than weak now. Had he Shadowmere, he would have ridden on ahead of them. But then he recalled that he had lost everything when he had been captured by the Elder Council. Priceless artifacts of the Nightingales now languished in some vault in the Imperial Bastion. Once again he was reminded of how weak and powerless he was and he loathed it. By the time they halted, they could smell smoke upon the air. For certain there must be great fires going on in the valley below. Into Crixus' mind, he recalled rumors, whispers he had heard in the taverns of the west, of endless rioting and chaos in Cheydinhal. He did not believe these, for he thought they were merely rumors started by Nords, for surely he had never seen any looting and rioting in his many visits to Cheydinhal; and, after all, if he didn't see it, then it couldn't be true (though there were quite a few things which he had seen which he still refused to believe).

On the third day of their voyage, being the fifth of Evening Star, they saw themselves come down out of the snow-clad forests of the mountains and into a clearing on the northern edge of the valley. Here the snow was stained gray with ash and soot, and there were fewer trees than in the mountains. He now saw great plumes of smoke rising up from the valley, the products of great fires. Near at hand, he saw a manor house with a spired roof of violet tiles. This was very much in the style of Dunmer buildings near the border of Cyrodiil, made of stone, lime and wooden support beams. Around said manor house, there were many workers with shovels and hoes, upsetting the ground. Small wooden hand-carts were being loaded with weeds, grass and plants, which were taken to the fire-pits and burned. Several large black and gray piles remained, and from these, others were taking shovel-fulls of ash and sowing the fields with it.

To this strange sight the travelers came. Atia and Janus told Crixus that they should carry on, but he insisted that they stop. Dismounting, he walked over to one of the workers, a Khajiit with tabby fur and a downcast look, and addressed him.

"Good day, sir," he said. "What are you doing here?"

But the Khajiit did not answer him, keeping eyes to the ground.

"Did you hear me, sir?" asked Crixus. "I said, what are you doing here?"

"This one cannot answer," the Khajiit demurred, eyes kept to the ground he was up-turning. "Master will be angry, then the whips will come. This one does not like the whips."

Crixus scoffed. "What in Oblivion are you talking about? There are no masters here, there's no slavery in the Empire. You're free!"

"Ho, there, sir!" a fine Nibenese voice addressed Crixus. Had Crixus not turned around at the newcomer, he would have expected none other than an Imperial. To his surprise, he saw a Dunmer in outdated, Third Era plate armor. His speech was not the pedestrian drawl of those who grew up as free-loaders in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, unbound to any but themselves, nor was it the scratchy, rasping, deep-throated cough of those who had lived their entire lives breathing in ash: his accent was Nibenese and he spoke without any of the phrases common to his people.

"What are you doing on my land?" the Dunmer asked.

"This is your land?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, these lands belong to me," he returned. "The manor house has been in my family since the Third Era, after my grandfather, Farwil Indarys, slew the Orc that once lived there. I am a nobleman and lord of the Knights of the Thorn: Raynor Indarys is my name, and I am the last of that line. Who are you, who walks through my lands unannounced so brazenly?"

"I am a servant of the Emperor," Crixus replied. "And I am going to Cheydinhal in haste."

"To Cheydinhal?" Raynor asked. "If that is so, then I must ask you to stay in my house. I have plenty of food for you, and my...staff can serve you well."

"Your staff?" Crixus asked.

"Well, surely!" exclaimed Raynor. "Did you think I owned all of these people as slaves? Come now, don't be ridiculous!"

"This Khajiit said something about his master being upset if he spoke to me," Crixus said, gesturing to the Khajiit.

"No!" muttered the Khajiit under his breath. "This one said nothing! Do not regard this one! Master is here, he will beat this one hard!"

"Did he, now?" Raynor asked, turning his eyes to look at the Khajiit. The poor cat looked away dejected, at which Raynor laughed.

"Oh, my dear stranger," he said to Crixus. "Not everything is as they seem. You will know this if you come to Cheydinhal. But, please, enjoy my hospitality."

Crixus looked back at Atia and Janus, and the young priestess climbed down from the cart and walked over to Crixus, whispering in his ear. "We will be delayed if we stop here."

"We're delayed by moving so slowly," said Crixus. "Besides, if he offers us hospitality, then who are we to turn it down? Why spend our supplies when food is being offered freely?"

"But I thought only the...well, you know, wanted to reclaim Vvardenfell?" asked Crixus. "Why is the countess ordering every farmer in Cheydinhal to do this?"

"I don't know for certain," Raynor sighed. "I can only speculate, and what I think is that she is turning this county into little Morrowind in truth, more than simply name."

"I don't believe that," Crixus dismissed.

"Believe whatever you want," Raynor replied. "But my family have paid the price for nothing more than being in the way of House Sadras and their allies."

"Do you have proof?" Crixus asked.

"No," Raynor shook his head. "They have been very careful to keep their worst activities hidden from the eyes of those who might search for them. But now with the Elder Council's silent consent, they have been emboldened of late. You will see what I mean when we come to Cheydinhal."

"We?" Crixus asked. "You're coming with me?"

"I have business there as it turns out," Raynor stated. "I must meet with a client of mine, one of my order. Therefore I am obliged to pass through the dangerous eastern quarter of Cheydinhal. I can see that you are good, at least as far as talking goes..." He chuckled, gesturing to the plates he had brought out. "We've talked so much, this soup is bound to be cold by now!"

"I'm sorry," Crixus dismissed. "I...there's so much I want to know."

"In due time, good sir," Raynor replied. "Now, then, servant of the Emperor, do you have a name?"

"Proximo Crixus," he lied.

"Very well, then," Raynor grinned. "Let us eat."

"Well, you have a point, there," Atia remarked. "Very well, Your Majesty, lead on."

Crixus turned to Raynor and told him that they would accept his offer. The Dunmer then led Crixus and his companions to the manor-house. Crixus kept his eyes looking this way and that, at those whom Raynor had called "workers." They seemed very dejected and lowly, working with heads bowed and eyes averted and thin, iron collars about their necks. He had seen slaves in Mournhold, for the Argonians enslaved their former masters and many Dunmer still possessed slaves of their own. Dunmer enslaved whoever they wished, including people of their own race, but slaves of those outside of Morrowind were in greater number. As far as Crixus knew, the Armistice which had brought Morrowind into the Empire permitted the Great Houses to preserve their own laws and customs regarding slavery. House Hlaalu, the House that was most inclined towards the Empire, was strongly abolitionist, but the other houses, especially House Dres, supported and encouraged slavery. After Morrowind left the Empire and House Hlaalu was disgraced, the Armistice was considered binding only to those Dunmer still living in the Empire, and slavery was, as before, wholly legal by the Great Houses.

But as far as Crixus knew, no Dunmer in Cyrodiil or Skyrim kept slaves: that was, after all, against the law.

The three entered Raynor's manor-house, and were ushered to a seat at his table. He then ordered his servants to prepare for them food. Crixus noticed that many of these were also bent as those he saw in the fields. He also saw that there were no maidservants in the house, only men: and that while the servants in the fields were clothed, albeit poorly in the face of the early winter, the menservants in the house were completely naked.

"Serrah," Crixus said to Raynor. "I have to ask: who are all these people?"

"They are my servants," Raynor replied with a smile.

"Indeed?" asked Crixus. "They seem more like slaves than hired servants."

"It is at it must be, I'm afraid," Raynor sighed. "Countess Sarys is a retainer of House Sadras, and they have a great influence in this county. They, like the other Great Houses, supported the reemergence of the slave trade. As for myself, I am of that long lost, but never forgotten, Great House. Unfortunately, we are hunted and hated in lands owned by the other Great Houses of late, especially by House Sadras. Therefore it is expected of a Dunmer nobleman such as myself to own slaves: the lack of such raises too many questions."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "And if this is true, why are you telling us about this? We're complete strangers."

"But you're obviously not of House Sadras," Raynor replied. "They only let Dunmer into their ranks, and use outsiders only insomuch as they are useful to them, then they are killed."

"The Emperor should know about this," Crixus stated. "You were wise to tell me."

"Indeed," Raynor nodded. "If you are indeed a servant of the Emperor, perhaps then we shall see some change in Cheydinhal." His servants arrived with food for his guests, after which he dismissed them and turned to Crixus in particular. He looked at him for a good long time, then turned to the others.

"And who are these with you?" he asked. "Can they be trusted?"

"This man..." Crixus said, gesturing to Janus. "Is...a knight in the service of the Count of Skingrad, who has saved my life recently. This young woman is a priestess of the Divines. You can trust them as surely as you may trust me, as a servant of the Emperor."

"Very well," Raynor sighed. "I must be wary, for there are more than a few spies of House Sadras among my servants. I could not name the Great House to which I belonged, for we have been disgraced and cast down from the Council of the Great Houses. Yet still we remain, here a little and there a little, as a bulwark against the mischief of House Sadras."

"You're with the Shield of Hlaalu?" Crixus asked.

Raynor shushed him. "Please, keep your voice down! Those words could lead a mer to their deaths here in Cheydinhal."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "This is Cyrodiil! Where else can House Hlaalu be safe if not in Cyrodiil?"

"This may indeed be part of Cyrodiil here and now," Raynor sighed. "But Cheydinhal's future hangs in the balance. Countess Sarys has been making false claims of great atrocities done by the Imperials and Nords against the Dunmer living in Cheydinhal. Once every week, she makes public appearances in the eastern half of the city, where she proclaims that her people must rise up against their oppressors. I fear that she wishes for Cheydinhal to cede from the Empire and become part of Morrowind."

"I don't believe anyone would do that," Crixus dismissed, shaking his head.

"House Sadras is not to be trusted," Raynor insisted. "The recent overthrow of the marshlands of the east in the North have been done by the hand of Athal Sarys, the brother of Countess Sarys and a more radical mer than she! They are both of them in service of House Sadras and have sought to expand the power of Morrowind. They have been allowed to do so for many years, thanks to the complacency of the Elder Council."

"What?"

"Many in the Empire wish to see friendly relations restored with Morrowind," Raynor said. "I daresay, even those of my order yearn to see the Empire and Morrowind reconciled. The Elder Council believe that the Great Houses may be placated and appeased, in order to foster good humor between our two nations. Thus it was, I believe, that they, at last, relented and gave leave for reinforcements to go north and end the rebellion: the rumor of Nords mistreating the Dunmer of Skyrim may have moved the hearts of the Elder Council, for they have a strong inclination towards the Dunmer."

"Hmm," Crixus mused, stroking his chin. It seemed very improbable, that the Dunmer would be wanting to take control of an Imperial county. As far as he knew from his encounters with them in Mournhold, they only wanted to be left alone. Also, what Raynor Indarys said went against his own 'strong inclinations' towards the Dunmer, such as he claimed the Elder Council possessed.

While he was thus musing, Atia spoke up. "We've seen smoke in the mountains, rising up from this valley region. Do you happen to know the source of this?"

"Oh, yes, milady, of course!" Raynor replied. "It's because of the new mandates of the countess. She has ordered all landowners outside of the city limits to...alter their farming habits."

"What do you mean?" asked Atia.

"We cut down and uproot every green thing on our land," Raynor stated. "Burn them and sow our fields with the ash."

"But that's horrible!" Atia exclaimed.

"No, it isn't," Crixus replied. "They do these things in Mournhold as well."

"Indeed," Raynor nodded. "And, being what I am, we have profited from the newly barren land. The flora and fauna we have imported grow much better once the squatters have been removed and the land purified."

"Is that so?" asked Crixus. "I must ask you, though, one more thing, serrah."

"What is that?" Raynor replied.

"Well, doubtless, your hospitality and courtesy are not lost on me," Crixus replied. "Having spent some time in Mournhold, I know the courtesy of the Dunmer people. But I would ask you why you are sharing these things with me. I'm a complete stranger."

"Nay," said Raynor. "But, seeing that you are human, it is unlikely that you are with House Sadras. Only Dunmer are allowed among their midst, and they only use humans insomuch as they wish, then they are disposed of. You saw how I dismissed the servants just now. There have been quite a few among them who are spies for Countess Sarys."

"I cannot believe that," Crixus replied. "Dunmer are better than that."

"Well, most of us are," Raynor stated. "But then again, some of us are not. And we must be on guard against those who are not, as you may see when we come to Cheydinhal."

"We?" asked Crixus. "You're going with us?"

"I have business in Cheydinhal," Raynor said. "One of my...associates required my presence. I can follow you there and protect you from what you might find there. But..." He gazed down at the food presented. "I'm so sorry! We have talked on so, this soup must be getting cold."

"You're a good mer," Crixus stated. "And you certainly have much to say. I don't count that time wasted."

"You flatter me, Crixus," Raynor returned. "Come now. Let us eat."

* * *

**(AN: I think that i might end up mashing together a few chapters, since that might make getting the story finished soon. Yes, the end of the story is in sight. I will definitely go on to do _Children of the Dragon_ [which, unfortunately, won't be my story about the children of Dracula], but whether i will do so immediately after this, i don't know. i commit quite a good bit of time to this story, and it will mean another large contribution of time since it won't be a one-shot or a short story in the slightest. But i have other stories planned, one set in the _Command and Conquer_ universe, maybe one in the _Warcraft_ universe, and definitely one or two about the Ringwraiths from _Lord of the Rings_, as well as some crazy ideas.)**


	46. Thieves Guild Rising

**(AN: Having combined several chapters together, I can start making accurate predictions for when this story will end. As we are on the forty-sixth chapter, barring any egregious desires to split an overlong chapter in two, I think i can safely say that this story will have fifty two chapters, and then we shall end it. I had initially desired to show ALL of Cyrodiil in the Fourth Era, torn by politics and strife, but as i went on, the story began to narrow down to just Crixus' personal struggle in all of this. I even left out any mention of the Merchants Guild in Chorrol and Bruma. Also, the Fighters Guild were to have a larger role initially, but that will have to be left for what comes afterwards.)  
**

**(This chapter will be a homecoming one for many reasons. Apart from Crixus returning to a familiar haunt, we see the return of many characters from the previous Skyrim chapters and what has been happening with them.)**

* * *

**Thieves Guild Rising**

They ate the food offered them, which they all agreed with spectacular. Raynor then had rooms prepared for them, but Janus insisted that he needed no room. Raynor reluctantly agreed, and Crixus was bungled off to an upper room with Atia. They both lay in separate beds, staring up at the ceiling, unable to go to sleep. Regarding Crixus' troubled mind, the last vestiges of whatever good his father had instilled in him still struggling against his 'better' half, and the images of death he had seen and brought forth at the Bruma Massacre, and the dream that haunted his sleep, these were more than enough to keep anyone awake at night. But for Atia, there was something on her heart and mind which kept her awake, something which involved Crixus. She longed to tell him what it was, but she did not know how he would take it. What Janus had told her about Bruma gave her fear that, perhaps, the Cult of the Dragon had chosen wrongly. But he _was_ the Last Scion, that she knew from the old records, passed down by word of mouth from the head of the order to the next on their deathbed.

Surely he deserved to know.

Night passed and eventually weariness overcame Crixus and he fell yet again into the same dream. For the moment, though, things were dreadfully clearer than before. He could hear more words being spoken by the shades off the sides of the ship that sailed through the mists. Most of what was said he did not understand, but he began to hear muttering in between, words that were personally important to him. He could hear the winged terror mocking him, demanding that he worship it, claiming that it was his goddess. He looked up and saw what appeared to be a wheel in the sky: but the Wheel is a Sphere, as he remembered it from the Eye of Magnus.

In a cold sweat he awoke, but not to much better fare. For as soon as his eyes opened, he gasped and crawled back towards the edge of the bed. There, sitting on his bed, crouched over him, was the last face he wanted to see. Though that could certainly speak for any number of people - Sedris, Lady Arannelya, the Grey Spirit, the Night Mother - there was one person of late whom he had no desire to see again: the winged terror. He tried to cry out, but found that a black-gloved hand was placed over his mouth.

"Gods, calm down!" the familiar voice of Aelina spoke. "You'll wake everyone in the house! My word, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

Crixus did not respond, not only because her gloved hand was still over his mouth. He had heard the winged terror speak in her voice as well as take on her visage as well, and he would not be fooled again. He tried biting at her hand, but it was gloved. Nevertheless, she felt his teeth go into her glove and tore her hand back in shock.

"Ow, shite!" she exclaimed. "You bit me!"

"You...you felt that?" Crixus breathed.

"Of course I felt it!" she returned. "You fucking bit me!" She removed the glove off her hand: the teeth had not punctured the glove and her hand was unharmed, if not a little sore from his bite.

"Who are you?" Crixus asked.

"It's me, you idiot!" she groaned. "Aelina."

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"I stole a Synod mage's purse," she replied. "In it was a letter to one Mercator Signis: it said that you went east, towards Cheydinhal."

"M.S.," Crixus gasped. The truth lay at the back of his mind, but Signis had seemed so helpless and cordial, he did not ever expect him to be capable of murder, to say nothing of having any bad blood against him.

"Did it say where he was?" asked Crixus.

"There was no address," Aelina replied. "I suppose it must have been a courier, delivering messages in the Berth of Strife. Now, would you mind telling me why you bit my hand? Are you secretly a Namira devotee?"

"I..." Crixus stammered. It suddenly dawned upon him just how awkward it would be, revealing to Aelina that he had been raped by a daedra that had assumed her form. He shook his head. "Nothing. Just some bad dreams."

"Must have been terrible," Aelina stated. "You're usually a little bit more tempered than this."

"So why are you here?" Crixus asked. "I don't think you came all this way just to deliver me a note, tell me my life was in danger and scare me in my sleep."

"I have a long tale to tell," Aelina replied, then looked over at the bed across from them. "But I don't want to disturb you and your wife."

"She's not my wife," Crixus stated.

"Then let's go outside, Crixus," Aelina returned. "Perhaps we will be able to talk privately there."

* * *

Crixus rose from his place and picked up his fur cloak as Aelina clambered out of the window of the room. After throwing the cloak around him, Crixus climbed up after her. There was a central roof to the manor-house, with a sloping center and the two spires on either side. It offered them a little protection from the cold, which Crixus approved of since he was only clad in the clothes Estalenya and Antilius had bought him, apart from his fur-lined Legion cloak. Once they arrived on the roof, they sat down with their backs to the central roof, close together for warmth. Crixus often looked away, since he could not bear to look at Aelina for any long period of time. He looked up at the stars, glistening in the heavens above, or to the south, to see if he could catch a glimpse of Cheydinhal or the Imperial City: neither of which he saw. At length, Aelina began her story.

"Breaking into the Grand Library was no great feat," she began. "The trouble started when I was tempted to take something from the Imperial Palace. That was successful, but as I was going to the Berth of Strife, I overheard some idle gossip among the Royal Guards in the Imperial Palace." She noticed that Crixus was not looking at her, and she asked him to: he turned, but kept his eyes on her neck and never made eye contact.

"They said you had been captured and were imprisoned in the Imperial Bastion on charges of treason," she stated. "I went there, but you had already left by then. The guards had no idea how you got out, and several were punished for it. I managed to find some of your things, which had been confiscated from you while you were incarcerated." She produced for him a black bundle, which she shoved into his hands, then continued with her story.

"I tried to regain your trail, but no one had seen you at all. You seemed to have vanished from the Imperial Bastion, like the Dwarves of the North from the face of Nirn. Well, then, I decided to fulfill my obligation, hoping that something would turn up. So I broke into the Grand Library, and..." She removed from her back a cylinder case bound in leather, which she gave to Crixus.

"Just like that?" he asked.

"Just like that, Your Majesty," she replied.

"The guild charter of the Mages Guild," Crixus breathed, holding the case reverently.

"Well, I've gotten that for you," Aelina replied. "Is there something else you want, or perhaps you have something for me?"

"You are free to act as you will," Crixus said. "Though I would ask, for a little while, that you go no farther than Cheydinhal. For I will be there soon and I have yet an errand that may require your service yet again."

"How much longer will you require my service?" she asked. "Will it be until you've become Emperor?"

Crixus sighed uneasily: in other times, he would have laughed merrily at her jest. Now it seemed hard to be at peace in her company, from what he had experienced.

"I know not," Crixus dismissed. "But until such time, I count you as a friend." He sighed. "The only one I have."

What a fix Crixus found himself in! Petruvius was yet in Cloud Ruler Temple, if Garnag had not yet given them the message. The others he dared not call friend, after what they had done to him in his darkest hour. Eirik he dared not hope would be friend, if ever he learned what happened in Bruma: his only hope was that Eirik's belief in honor would hold him to his oath stronger than his hotheadedness would seek to break it.

"And as that," Crixus stated. "I may yet call for you ere the end."

"Very well," sighed Aelina. "I shall stay in Cheydinhal for a time, and await your wish. But I must ask that you not take too long. I have yet more to do in my absence from your company."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Crixus sighed. "I hope that, ere long, I shall be seated on the Ruby Throne." There was more he wished to say. He wanted to tell her all, everything that had happened. He wanted to tell her that he had followed her advice and acted in accordance to his heart. For it was not political expediency or some great plot to foster fear and pandemonium in Cyrodiil that drove Crixus to commit the Bruma Massacre; it was the fulfillment of his own desire, the easing of his own pain. In this he had acted as she had told him: with no regard to anyone or anything but his own heart. Would she have approved of what he said? For a long time silence passed between them as he pondered what he should say: Aelina, however, seemed to take the hint that their conversation was now over.

"Until that day, Your Majesty," she grinned, rising up from her place. She made her way to the edge of the roof, then paused and turned around.

"That woman in the room with you," she said. "Who is she?"

"Just some crazy cultist who worships me because I'm to be the Emperor," Crixus sighed.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"I suppose so," admitted Crixus. At this, he turned about, gazing at her legs rather than her face. "Why do you ask?"

"I saw her face when I broke into your room," she said. "There is something weighing heavily upon her heart. You should ask her about it."

"I'll do that," Crixus dismissed. He turned away, then another thought came into his mind. "Hey, wait! How did you see her face without her seeing you?"

"You forget, Crixus," Aelina replied. "I'm the Grey Fox." And with that, she leaped off the roof and sped off into the night like a mirage. She had not fallen or taken hurt, for the Boots of Spring-Heeled Jakben allowed her to make large, bounding leaps without serious injury. Crixus did not look after her, for he cared not if she was injured: the memory was too strong and he dared not nurse the horror.

Instead he turned back to the bundle, which smelled of beer, skooma and sweat. Unwrapping it, he found, to his delight, several things within, black as night and barely visible under the moons' light: things which he believed lost since his captivity by the Penitus Oculatus.

* * *

Crixus returned to his bed, once again seeing the same dream of the sea of mists and the many shades upon it. When morning came, several servants of Raynor's came into their room and offered them water to wash themselves. Both Crixus and Atia accepted, though Crixus realized that Atia was very sluggish and stayed over-long in the upper room, apparently washing herself. During this time, Crixus took a moment or two to examine the bundle he had been given. Inside was his Nightingale gear, the Sword, the Bow, his quiver of arrows, and the little Shadowmere amulet within.

When at last Atia came down, she said very little and averted her eyes from Crixus'. They then went down to the dining room, where they had eaten the previous afternoon, but did not find Raynor there waiting for them. A servant offered them a light breakfast, then ushered them to the door. Raynor was waiting for them outside, on a white horse beside their wagon, at whose head was Janus. He had loaded some fresh goods therein and was directing his servants to wrap a heavy tarp over it.

"It will be wise to keep track of your things," he said. "Especially once we reach Cheydinhal. You might find yourselves leaving with less than you began with if not."

Crixus then used his amulet to summon Shadowmere, which he mounted and readied himself to leave. Atia slowly climbed up into the wagon with Janus, then the four of them took off without a word. As they went on, Crixus brought his horse up to Raynor.

"A fine horse you have!" Raynor stated. "And a mage's spell, I must say, conjures it. There must be many stories about you, sir. You wear the armor of the Legion, and have a horse summoned by the power of Conjuration."

"It was a gift, some time ago," Crixus replied. "And it was returned to me recently. But I must ask something of you: your departure with us seemed rather hasty. Are you not worried about the welfare of your house?"

"It's true," Raynor sighed. "That I am the last of my family, and have neither children nor kin to carry on my name. I have an honest steward in charge of my affairs until I return. And if it turns out that I shall lose my manor-house, it is nothing to me. I can always get another one."

They rode on slowly, taking a path that led southwest. Large sections of forests had been clear-cut, and the wood, which was good and may have been used to build many a hut or furnish tables or furinture, was burned with fire. All seemed like a grey, lifeless waste around their road: for the ground also was brown and lifeless, almost ashen like the piles thereof around. The path continued along for a while, then turned straightly southward through the burning wastes. By and by, the road passed on its right-hand side a wide lake, split in two. On the northern march was a smaller pool, which spilled over a lip of rock into a short waterfall into the wider pool. On this side was a small house made of wood and stone.

Crixus seemed drawn towards that house, gazing at it as if expecting to see something there. It certainly seemed strange, a living house on the edge of so great a desolation: for farther south there were yet trees around the lower ends of the valley, wreathed in gray and black smoke.

"That is Lake Arrius," Raynor stated. "And that house is the Liore Residence. A family of some influence has lived there for some time, despite the changing political climate of Cheydinhal."

"Changing climate?" Atia asked.

"Dreyla Sarys gives no consideration for the crimes committed by Dunmer," Raynor replied. "To her, the only criminals are humans, and are the only ones she openly punishes. There are rumors of lawlessness in the country, and in the limits of the city, the fires of rioting always burn. Most humans have been driven out of the countryside, whether by violence or placed into slavery: for the present, only the western half of Cheydinhal has remained free of such lawlessness. The Liore Residence is one of the last places owned by humans on the eastern side of the city."

Crixus looked on at that house, thinking he saw someone in the window, gazing out at him. The little cottage, the Liore Residence, seemed defiant against the gray, wastes behind it: as if to say that the madness of House Sadras would come no nearer. For a moment, Crixus wanted to ride down to that house, knock on the door and speak to those who lived within.

"Come, Crixus," Atia said. "It's best not to disturb them."

With that, Crixus sighed, turning his horse about and galloped down the main road to Cheydinhal with the others.

* * *

It was two hours after noon when they came up to the eastern gate of Cheydinhal. Though Crixus had come to this city many times, he had always come by the west gate, leaving the road to come by the Newland Hall, his favorite haunt. It was the first time he had ever seen the eastern side of the city. To his amazement, the east gate hung in ruins, its gate broken down and its towers gutted, spilling their stony entrails everywhere. Smoke hung heavy in the air, which had prevented them from seeing the city from afar as they came down out of the mountains.

"There it is, Cheydinhal," remarked Raynor. "Do keep your heads down and don't speak a word until we reach the eastern side. If we are confronted, let me do the talking."

They passed through the ruined gate and into the city proper. What they saw shocked them all, but Crixus especially. Like the Elder Council, he had a clear prejudice for the Dunmer, believing them to be highly cultured and civilized at the best and at the very least, a wealthy people from whom the Empire might prosper in friendship. But the sight of the eastern side of Cheydinhal made him question that belief. It seemed like Skingrad, gutted and in ruins, with bodies of dead Dunmer lying in the streets. There was a short river dividing the town, and on the watershed on this side there were clusters of houses built in the adobe fashion of old Vvardenfell. These houses were so close together that the houses seemed like one great complex of many rooms. To his left, the Great Chapel of Arkay stood in ashes, its blackened skeleton of burned beams all that remained of that once proud place of worship. The stones had long since been looted, but there were still some standing among the ashes. Upon them had been written in blood or carved with weapons several symbols. There were many symbols, but one seemed to be prevalent. It was a double triangle with the points squared off, and in that triangle were three letters written in the Daedric alphabet, which the Dunmer of Morrowind used: the symbols stood for '_Ayem_', '_Vehk_' and '_Seht_', which was the sigil of the Old Tribunal, the "living" gods of the Dunmer.

Though there were dead lying in the street, Crixus saw many living Dunmer about the streets as well. Many hid in the cramped alleyways of the buildings, or shut their doors and windows as they passed by them. Many he saw in the ruins of the chapel, glaring hatefully at them or dancing upon the ashes. Crixus saw that more than a few Dunmer were now ambling towards them.

"Don't look them in the eyes," Raynor replied. "Just keep going straight. The bridge is before us, we'll be safe once we cross it."

So they continued on their way down the lane that would lead them to the bridge. Crixus heard words muttered by the Dunmer around them, words muttered in the Dunmeri language. He did not reply to them, for he was still trying to register what he saw with what he believed. On and on they went, with Crixus following Raynor a little behind and to his left. They were now close to the bridge. But as they continued on their way, suddenly Crixus saw Raynor bring his white horse to a halt. Crixus brought Shadowmere to a halt and noticed, from the bottom of his hood, a group of Dunmer standing in their way.

"Oi, serjo," one of the Dunmer drawled. "You ain't one of us, all doled up fancy-like. Look like one o' them bloody _n'wahs_ from the other side."

"What'cho doin' 'ere, fetcher?" another asked. "Come to gawk at what them white _n'wahs_ 'ave done teh us?"

"Your kind ain't wanted 'ere, blood-traitor!" sneered a third. "Dressin' in _n'wah_ clothes, riding filthy, hairy _n'wah_ beasts. Probably 'ave one o' them lily-white _n'wah_ b*tches for a mate, by Vivec's spear!"

"I am in haste," Raynor replied.

"Oh, in 'aste you are?" the first one asked. "Talkin' all fancy like. You ain't one of us, _n'wah!_"

"And what's this you got 'ere in the cart?" the third asked, approaching the cart and reaching out to remove the tarp. Janus hissed at him and the Dunmer stepped back, sticking out his blue-gray tongue at him.

"Hands off," Raynor replied. "It's not for you."

"Don' understand, fetcher," the first one said. "Countess says everything in this 'ere canton belongs to us."

"Right on," another nodded. "Only bloody _n'wahs_ talk about what we don't own! Pah, the Troubles take 'em all!" He spat on the ground.

"So if you're sayin' you own somethin'," the first one clarified. "Somethin' as ain't belongin' to one an' all and all in one, you're nothin' but a filth _n'wah_ to us. And you know what that means?"

"It means you're trespassin'!" the second one shouted. "You're on our side of the river!"

"And there ain't no one as can save you 'ere!" the third one leered.

"Save us from what?" asked Raynor.

"Them as know don't need fer askin'," the first one said. "And those as ask don't need fer knowin'."

"Please!" Crixus shouted, throwing off his hood. To his surprise, he noticed that it wasn't only a few Dunmer around them, but a small mob gathering from all sides, cutting them off slowly but surely. "There's no need to resort to violence! I have lived among the Dunmer in Mournhold, and I am a friend of them..."

"Pah!" another spat at him.

"Dunmer ain't no friends with no filthy _n'wahs!_" the third one shouted.

"'e's one o' them!" the second one shouted. "Kill it, then fuck its corpse!"

"I got dibs on their booty," the third added, eying the cart.

"Ride!" shouted Raynor. "Ride on! The bridge is near. If we hurry, we might be able to make it across!"

Crixus and Raynor spurred their horses onward and galloped off towards the bridge. Behind them, Janus cracked the reins on the cart and it galloped on the bumpy, cobblestone street after them, bumping violently over what brick, beam or body lay in its way. Raynor's white charger, a horse from the Lower Niben Basin and the county of Leyawiin, was a fast horse, and Shadowmere was only riding at a fraction of his full speed: they both broke through the gathering mob and charged onto the bridge. They made it half the way across when Raynor halted and turned around. The wagon was slowly making its way behind them, but the mob had already caught up to them. Some were throwing themselves or pushing their fellows under the wheels, some were at the harnesses, trying to release one of the horses, and many were climbing onto the wagon, trying to rip off the tarp.

"They'll never make it here alive," Raynor despaired.

"Not while I'm here," Crixus said, the faint-used good side winning out over the side of inaction and apathy. He spurred Shadowmere into action, charging back across the bridge amid cries from Raynor that he would surely die if he went back. He leaped off the horse and drew out his gladius and the Nightingale Sword. The Imperial sword he dug into one and the black sword of Nocturnal he used to hack off the hands of another that was climbing onto the cart, reaching for Atia. At this, many leaped off the cart and ran in fear for their lives, or into the river to swim away.

"Look out!" one shrieked. "It's armed!"

"So are we!" another replied, taking out a knife and standing its ground.

On the top of the cart, another was coming from the back to seize Atia from behind. Janus spun around and, with one hand and his vampiric strength, slapped off the face of the Dunmer, leaving a bloody, open wound where once had been eyes, mouth, prominent brow and nose. With a hiss he lurched back, hiding his hand in his robes: it was smoking. Crixus was now fending off three Dunmer who attacked him with knives. Though he had the longer range, they were numerous and several from under the cart, who had neither died or fled, seized his legs and pulled them out from under him. The nearest armed Dunmer rose to strike Crixus, but an arrow out of seemingly nowhere struck him in the hand and he cowered back, clutching his hand. Looking around, Crixus saw several hooded figures in leather garb charging the lines of the Dunmer, most of them armed with knives and bows. Their sudden presence dispersed the mob, who fled shrieking and crying, pointing and hollering.

"Filthy _n'wahs_!" they said. "We'll find you an' we'll come fer you one lonely night, when your friends ain't 'ere teh save you."

As Crixus was still in awe of what had just happened, one of his rescuers knelt down at his side and said in a familiar voice:

"Tough luck, lad."

"Brynjolf?" Crixus asked. Upon hearing his right name spoken, the hooded man turned to Crixus. With a chuckle, he threw off his black hood.

"Crixus, you old dog!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here, lad? I thought the needs of the Empire were keeping you busy."

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "And now they bring me here to Cheydinhal."

"Well, if they're not keeping you too busy," Brynjolf replied. "The others would like to meet you. We have much to discuss, much to catch up on."

"I'm quite sure," Crixus dismissed.

"We must move, though," Brynjolf said. "The east side is not a safe place for us. Humans, I mean. Karliah and Ulain have been in and out of here quite often. They say there's a secret tunnel, though they've never shown it to me."

"I must see to my companions," Crixus returned. "Once I've gotten their answer, I'll leave with you separately."

"There's no need," Brynjolf replied. "Our headquarters are beneath the Black-Briar manor-house here in the city. We can set them up in the manor while you and I go below to discuss what's been happening of late."

"Indeed?" Crixus asked. "Rather convenient, I'd say."

"You might have a different tune," replied Brynjolf. "If you knew about the consequences of our flight from Skyrim."

"Wait a minute, flight?" asked Crixus. "I thought..."

"Plenty of time for that later, lad," Brynjolf dismissed. "Talk to your friends now, I must be gone." With that, all the leather-clad thieves departed at a wave from Brynjolf. Crixus then rose up and saw Janus on top of the cart, holding something close to his chest.

"Where's Atia?" he asked.

"I'm right here," she replied. Crixus then saw that the bundle Janus was holding was Atia. "Are they gone now?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "Though I'm surprised you two fought as little as you did."

"I have my own reasons," Atia returned, averting her gaze.

"As do I," Janus returned.

"Well, then," Crixus said. "Let's get this cart off the bridge and onto the other side..." He cast a wary eye towards the smoking, smoldering ruin of the eastern shore. "...before we incite another mob."

There had been some damage done to their cart by the mob. One of the wheels had been shredded of all its spokes and the axle was now even with the ground, teetering to one side. Janus dismounted and, holding the axle, told Atia to drive the carriage on as Crixus led them over the bridge. On the other side, they saw a thronging crowd gathered before the causeway that led to the entrance of Cheydinhal Castle. They parked the wagon at the back of the crowds, then Crixus told Janus and Atia to wait as he pushed his way through the crowds to get a better view. Up the causeway he went, until he passed into the courtyard of Cheydinhal Castle, where the crowds were gathered around the entrance to the keep.

At the top steps of the keep stood a tall Dunmer woman in traditional Dunmer clothes, such as belonged to a wealthy woman. There was at her side another Dunmer, a shorter Dunmer man, bald save for a goatee that might as well be a single strand of gray moss. Upon hearing him speak after the Dunmer woman and in the Dunmeri language, he guessed that his purpose was to translate everything the noblewoman said. As the interchange went on, it became apparent that the translator was not giving an exact translation of everything she said: in fact, he was saying the exact opposite in all accounts. Crixus knew the Dunmeri tongue, having learned it during his twenty year exile in Mournhold; though he did not speak it, being proud of his Colovian heritage. Here is what he heard the woman say:

"People of Cheydinhal," she said. "I, your Countess, am your servant. It is my duty to protect the interests of the people of Cheydinhal: but not only for you who live in peace and comfort here on the western side, but for those on the other side as well. Dear people, they are very upset over how their brethren in Skyrim have been treated by the white Nords. They must be given a safe space to vent their frustration as they see fit. But there is nothing to worry! No one is being killed, no one is being raped, no buildings are being burned or looted, no one is being driven from their houses and enslaved. This is Cyrodiil! If such egregious violations of Imperial Law were indeed underway, the Elder Council would know about it and send some to stop them."

Here is what the translator said:

"Hear the words of your only ally," he spoke. "Countess Dreyla Sarys is our ally. She is the only one protecting us from the vile _n'wahs_ who seek to purge us from their 'beloved' Cyrodiil. They think they own this land: it is a lie! This land is ours, given to us by right of birth, as mer before the New Tribunal! We owe the white _n'wahs_ nothing, whether they be Nord or Imperial. No deals or pledges of trust must be made between them. The n'wahs must be driven out of our land! Kill them when you meet them in the streets! Enjoy yourself upon their women when you meet them in the streets! Destroy their buildings, and take from them what you will! Take them when you find them and enslave them if you see fit! Kill all _n'wahs_! They have no love for you, only for themselves! We shall prevail! Cheydinhal will be ours!"

"No," Crixus muttered as he turned away his head, refusing to believe what was being said. It must be some kind of ploy. The translator must be a rebel, or one intentionally trying to undermine her rule. He had met more than a few translators in Mournhold who told falsehoods for those they were translating instead of the truth. Surely this was the same happenstance here, and not a malicious ploy to undermine the Empire. As with the Nords, where Crixus would see any small thing as a provocation, he would do his best to ignore any provocation from the Dunmer.

* * *

The Black-Briar manor-house was at the bottom of the causeway that led to Cheydinhal Castle's courtyard, adjacent to the Newland Hall. As they approached the entrance, Crixus saw Brynjolf talking to a steward who stood at the door. No sooner had they appeared when the steward left and returned swiftly with two other servants.

"This is Fenric," Brynjolf said, gesturing to the steward. "He's a servant of Maven Black-Briar. He will take care of your horse and your supplies. You three are to stay in the manor as guests of the Black-Briar Clan."

"As guests?" Janus asked. "Why, that's a great Nord clan, and no mistake. Even here in Cyrodiil, they're as renowned as the Surilie Family."

"We're guests?" Atia asked.

"Aye, lass," Brynjolf replied. "Your friend here, Crixus, is in good standing with the head of the clan, Maven Black-Briar. She will be most pleased to see him again, as will we all."

Janus got out of the cart and helped Atia out as well. Crixus, meanwhile, let Shadowmere run free as the stewards approached to take the cart away. Brynjolf led the way into the manor-house with Crixus at his side. Raynor, who had been watching from the street, had tied his horse to the hitching post out in front of the Newland Hall, then quickly joined in behind Crixus. The steward Fenric approached Atia and Janus and led them away to their rooms on the upper level of the manor-house, with Raynor following them in turn. Brynjolf, meanwhile, placed his arm around Crixus' shoulder and led him down a flight of stairs into the basement.

"So, what's new with the Thieves Guild?" asked Crixus. "You said that you had been kicked out."

"Aye, lad," Brynjolf replied. "Your friend Eirik kicked us out of Skyrim, the Thieves Guild and the Black-Briars. Their Sons of Skyrim drove us out like a pack of dogs."

"But you seem to have done well for yourselves," Crixus stated.

Brynjolf chuckled as he opened a door at the bottom of the stairs. Inside was a wide basement with a round, stone table. In the basement walls were cut several large niches, in which bags, chests and barrels were filled: some with food, others with gold, jewels and precious items. There were several people at the table: three of which he knew, the rest were strangers to him.

"Crixus!" a familiar voice exclaimed. A young woman with dark hair rose up and ran over to him.

"Asteria?" Crixus asked. "Gods, I never thought I'd see your face, not after our adventures in the Reach."

"It's been a long road since then," she said. "And I've seen some strange things, but I'm better for it. Oh, I don't know if you remember, but you can rest at ease: I've made enough money from my hauls to buy myself a new lute. You don't have to buy me one."

"Indeed?" asked Crixus. He had quite forgotten his promise.

Brynjolf went around the room and introduced the others. Talas and Tanis Crixus knew from the Honningbrew job in Whiterun, and they greeted him warmly. There was a Breton woman named Laila Christophe, considered one of the best thieves since Armaund the Thief of the Third Era, to whom she was related. There was also an Argonian whose name was only given as Lightest-Fingers. The others were Syndus, a Bosmeri fletcher, a Breton apothecary named Herluin Lothaire and two other Dunmer: blacksmith Vanryth Gatharian and ex-Morag Tong Ravyn Imayn.

Of the Thieves Guild that Crixus knew, Delvin and Vex still remained, though they were now away on business. Karliah and Ulain Selaro, another Dunmer, were often in the east side of the city, since they could pass there without rousing suspicion. Etienne and Rune had been lynched by Dunmer mobs in Cheydinhal and Vekel, released some days after the Sons of Skyrim drove out, died in the wilds. Sapphire was on Solstheim with Glover Mallory, who Brynjolf revealed was in fact her father.

"All in all," Brynjolf said. "Things have certainly been better than they were before. Our hauls bring in by the cart-loads. In fact, I might have to negotiate with Maven to get us a new place to store our booty. This place is getting rather cramped as it is."

"It seems, from what you've said," Crixus returned. "That you've been hit with hard times. Has the, you know..."

"Not that I know of," Brynjolf dismissed. "But change is always difficult. Niruin lost a lot at the gambling tables at Newland Hall. He ended up being indebted to one of the Countess' men and got himself landed in jail. Cynric disappeared trying to break into the Liore Residence north-east of here: haven't seen him since. But we, like Maven Black-Briar, thrive off the chaotic environment of this city."

"Yes, I've noticed," Crixus stated. "The Black-Briar mead has been circulating throughout Cyrodiil lately. Is that a new vintage or the older stock?"

"Newer vintage, I'd say," Brynjolf replied. "Maven has enough connections here in Cyrodiil to get her business up and running." He then took Crixus aside, whispering into his ear.

"Don't tell anyone this," he said. "I don't want to give anyone false hope or nothing. But it seems that we might be in for returning to Skyrim."

"We?"

"Meaning the Thieves Guild."

"How did you manage?"

"A little Bosmer was left back in Riften," Brynjolf replied. "I tell you, lad, if I believed in gods, I'd be thanking them that Laila was a weak jarl: Anuriel has been nothing but a help to us, both in her rule and now in the rule of Jarl Vulwulf."

"Snow-Shod," Crixus grumbled, remembering the name from Vittoria Vici's wedding: he did not like them, not in the least because they were Nords who supported Ulfric's rebellion.

"Enough about me, though," Brynjolf dismissed. "I want to hear more about you, lad." He looked this way and that, then whispered: "Is it true about you, the news out of the Imperial City?"

"Which news is that?" asked Crixus.

"That you broke into the Grand Library in the Arcane University?" he asked.

Crixus chuckled. "Oh, no. I can't take credit for that one."

"But you have heard of it, right?"

"Yes, I've heard of it."

Brynjolf whistled. "What we could do with someone of that skill! If you happen to know anything, please send it our way."

"I hear that the Grey Fox has it out against the Thieves Guild," Crixus stated. "Something about the Merchants Guild or something."

"Easily taken care of," dismissed Brynjolf. "For now, Crixus, come. Sit at our table and enjoy the fruits of our hard labor."

Crixus joined them at their table. But while he was being seated, he noticed that there was one seated at the table: one to whom he had not been introduced. He tried to speak to the man, but he kept his hood down over his head and spoke not to him. Meanwhile, Crixus enjoyed the food he had been given while the others talked animatedly about things going on among the Thieves Guild. After Crixus had eaten his fill, the hooded man got up, walked over to Brynjolf and whispered in his ear. Brynjolf nodded, then turned to Crixus.

"Butto here," he said, gesturing to the hooded man. "Wants to have a word with you in private. Follow him."

Crixus shrugged, then rose from his seat. He had not yet been stopped and asked for his weapons, so he felt secure that if anyone tried anything, he would be able to defend himself. He followed Butto over to an alcove in the wall, where the man reached out a withered-looking hand and pulled on the torch's iron fitting. A portion of the masonry slid back, revealing a long, dark tunnel. Butto removed the torch from its niche, then made his way into the tunnel, with Crixus following on behind. Once they were both within the dark tunnel, Butto doffed his hood and turned to Crixus.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he demanded. In the light of the torch, the thin, pinched face took on a more familiar likeness.

"Lucan!" Crixus exclaimed. "I...I don't know, talking with you?"

"Bruma?" he asked. "Really? Do you have such little love for the Empire that you would risk its utter ruin over a petty vendetta?"

"Look," Crixus replied, playing dumb. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I think you have the wrong man."

"We both know I don't," Pelagius replied. "And there's no point in denying it: I know it was you."

"How?" was all that Crixus could ask.

"In our long absence," he said. "I've looked into you, Servius Crixus. I know as much about you now as the Thalmor Ambassador does." Crixus tried to conceal the worry on his face: that Pelagius-Lucan had access to Thalmor documents, ones about himself personally, was frightening to say the least. What if he knew about his assassination of the Emperor?

"I know," he continued. "That you were part of the Karthwasten Massacre during the Great War. It was covered up, but the Thalmor still kept records. I've looked into those records and saw that you were recommended for the task of sending a message in favor of the Forsworn, due to your friendly disposition towards them and your hatred for the Nord people."

"So what if I hate Nords, eh?" Crixus asked. "They certainly deserve it."

"Did the people of Bruma deserve it?" Pelagius asked.

"That's different," Crixus lied. "I needed to send a message. I had to show the people of Cyrodiil and Skyrim that the Empire is strong, that we will not tolerate a rebellion! I've broken their spirits, and so those who will come after them will be more lenient."

"There are other outcomes to such rash actions," Pelagius stated. "It will only widen the gap created between the Empire and the barbarians of the North during the civil war. It will also breed chaos, which the Thalmor want to bring to the Empire: or did you not learn that from your close dealings with them in Skyrim?"

"What?" gasped Crixus. "How much do you know?"

"Enough to know that slaughtering four thousand Nords isn't the way to make a lasting message," Pelagius replied. "There are other ways."

"I know of the other ways," Crixus stated. "But for now, I needed that."

"Why?" he asked.

Crixus groaned. "Because I've accepted your offer. Do you hear me? I will take the Ruby Throne."

"That doesn't explain why you did this," Pelagius returned.

"No, it does," Crixus replied. "This is Cyrodiil, not Skyrim. Nobody gives a fuck about a bunch of savages, especially when everyone here sees them rightly as the cause of the unrest in the North. The people of Cyrodiil will therefore respect my justice as well as fear my wrath. I will be loved and feared: what could be better?"

"And how will you take the Ruby Throne?" Pelagius asked. "Now that you've decided to take it."

"I'm friends with the Guild-master of the Thieves Guild," Crixus replied. "With them on my side, we can break the power of the Merchants Guild and return Imperial commerce under the control of the East Empire Trading Co. I've seen that Reconstruction is going poorly in several cities: therefore I will tax Skyrim heavily, reparations for the civil war, you understand. That money will go to rebuilding the Empire. I've also burned the Ecumenical Primature Complex on Sancre Tor, the organized head of the Faith of the Nine. People will be looking for a strong leader, and once I've taken down the High Chancellor, that leader will be me. I have knights, mercenaries, the Legion and a new Mages Guild to back me."

Pelagius sighed, his face furrowing in a rare outward expression of his inward thoughts. "You are very much like the Thalmor, thriving on chaos to gain your ends. But you certainly have changed since we last spoke, and you seem much more focused now than before."

"I know what needs to be done," Crixus said.

"Then, in the interests of the Empire," Pelagius returned. "I will serve you. I have only one thing to say before we continue."

"Oh?" asked Crixus. "And what is that?"

"Remember who it was that brought you to this point," Pelagius replied. "And who it will be who will work tirelessly to build your name and power among the people. If you turn from the path, or fail to uphold the interests of the Empire, what I know may find a way of reaching the ears of those you would rather it not reach."

"Are you threatening me?" Crixus asked. "Because if you are, I'll have you killed."

Pelagius grinned. "Better men than you have said the same. They are...no more."

* * *

**(AN: Apparently people actually like the Thieves Guild. Oh well. Everyone will doubtless be happy to see the Black-Briar family doing well.)  
**

**(Many of you are doubtless wondering "when is Miraak going to rear his ugly head again?" Don't worry, very soon. I've been doing some research and have a few theories of my own on what his purpose is in the grand scheme of things. See, my brother writes off everything in _Skyrim_ as being just "erasing everything in _Morrowind_ and _Oblivion_", and he hates _Dawnguard_ and _Dragonborn_ because they don't conform to Kirkbride's lore or fit into the grand scheme of what he "created." To him, therefore, Miraak is not a Dragonborn, just a really powerful dragon priests that the dragons - children of Akatosh - were dumb enough to give him the power to absorb their souls.)**

**(Here is my theory. Kyne told Paarthuranx to give the Voice to mortals, which he did. Miraak might have been one of these mortals, since Paarthurnax saw in him his ambition [and since that is part of Paarthurnax's name, he would have been drawn to it]. Miraak himself claims that the Tongues - Hakon, Gormlaith and Felldir - came to him and begged him to help them stop Alduin, but he was like "lol, that's too little for me." Therefore, it is my theory that Miraak was the first one of the Dragon-blood and he rejected his part to act as the one to permanently free mankind from dragons by killing them and absorbing their souls: you know, kind of like Crixus.)**


	47. The Last Secrets

**(AN: This chapter is the crazy one, for which i have done a GREAT deal of research into the more bizarre aspects of _Elder Scrolls_ lore [namely everything Kirkbride wrote, as far as "CHIM" goes]. What i could decipher thereof made little sense, because MK is all about contradictions. Therefore i decided to make this chapter was crazy and out there as possible...and in the end it wasn't crazy enough. I also changed the title, since the original had to do with the Mantella, which isn't really focused much upon in this chapter [though a new one definitely appears])  
**

**(Since this will be the conclusion of Crixus' Talos story-line, i'm guessing you might be able to guess what will happen. On a side note, i saw somewhere that the strongest character in a story is not the hero, but the hero's guide. For Eirik, it comes in the persons of his father, Lydia and, to a degree, Galmar. Crixus is the modern hero, who spurns all sage counsel, believing that he alone has the only good and sound knowledge [i actually saw someone review _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ with a positive appraisal of Crixus: so yes, i called it. you all love the douchey modern hero]: therefore, he has no guide but his own twisted sense of right and wrong.)**

* * *

**The Last Secrets  
**

Crixus turned away from Pelagius and instead went upstairs. Brynjolf waved at him as he passed by and he approached him and asked him about if he might requisition their services yet again.

"Perhaps," Brynjolf replied. "How's the pay?"

"Oh, I don't know," Crixus shrugged. "Something like...complete commercial control over the House of Nobles?"

"And how do I know that's within your power to give?" Brynjolf slyly asked.

"You're a clever man, Brynjolf," Crixus chuckled. "But you know me: I'm not one given to exaggeration. If I have something to give, then you know it's within my power to grant."

"I'll consider it," Brynjolf replied.

The rest of that day Crixus spent with the Thieves Guild, helping them with their jobs in whatever way he could. Always, however, he was told never to stray over onto the eastern side.

"What if I need to get over there?" asked Crixus.

"Then you might as well kill yourself," Brynjolf replied. "For the Dunmer will certainly do it for you, if they catch you over there."

"What if I need to get out on the eastern side?" asked Crixus. "You know, just in case."

"Expecting the west gate to be held against you?" Brynjolf asked.

"Not for the present," Crixus returned. "But you never know."

At this, Brynjolf took Crixus back down into the tunnel where he and Pelagius had spoken. At its entrance, he came to a halt and picked up a torch. Into the tunnel they went, with Brynjolf leading the way. It went on for a while, going from dark earth and rock into a tunnel of stone masonry.

"Count Andel Indarys," Brynjolf replied. "Built these tunnels during the latter days of the Third Era. They run underneath the river and straight out to the other side of the city. The main tunnel leads to the Chapel of Arkay, but that was sealed up when the rioters burned it down."

"Good for them," Crixus sneered.

They went on in total darkness, until they came to a place where the masonry came to an end and the tunnel vanished on all sides. Brynjolf held up his torch and showed two more passages: one leading to the left and the other going straight on.

"The passage to the left leads to the chapel," Brynjolf said. "No use going there, since it's blocked. But this one..." He held his torch down the straight-way tunnel. "...runs right underneath the city walls. There's a door at its end, by the city wall: it was placed here during the Great War, in case the Dominion laid siege to the southwestern side of the city, for a sortie or for a quick escape. It only opens from this side. You get past that, and you're outside the city walls."

"Nice," Crixus replied.

"Are you satisfied now, lad?" Brynjolf asked. "Come on, let's get back to the manor. That tunnel gives me the creeps." He gestured towards the tunnel that led out of the city.

"Why's that?" Crixus asked.

"There's stories about that tunnel," Brynjolf replied, his quivering voice echoing off the stone walls of the tunnel. "It's said that the Count's men found something in this tunnel, while they were digging. Whatever it was, it killed six of the diggers working in the tunnel. Then the tunnel was finished, and that was it. No more killings. Officially there was a cave-in, but I've been down there: it's structurally sound."

"So?" Crixus asked. "It's been over two hundred years. Surely whatever was down here is long gone."

"Hardly, lad," Brynjolf answered. "There's been reports of strange things going on in this tunnel. Voices, whispers, cries, groans. Something is still in this tunnel, something or someone."

"Is that so?" Crixus replied.

"Come on," Brynjolf repeated. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

They did leave the tunnel, but Crixus kept his eyes on that farther tunnel. There seemed to be something about that dark place that called to him. As if that were not enough, he saw, or thought that he saw, a shape, reddish in the glow of Brynjolf's torch, somewhere at the back of that tunnel.

Later that evening, Crixus went up to the top of the manor-house and asked Fenric where his companions were being held. He led them to a room on the upper level and opened the door. Atia was seated near the window, eyes shut and lips moving softly. Janus was hiding in the shadows, still clad in his black robes.

"Where's Raynor?" Crixus asked.

"He left an hour after we left," Janus said. "He said he has to seek out friends of his in the eastern side of the city."

"I understand," Crixus nodded. He then looked over towards Atia. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's praying," Janus replied. "She's been that way ever since we came into this room."

"Tch," Crixus rolled his eyes. He then walked over to her and nudged her. "Hey! Wake up and sit the fuck up! Your gods won't answer your prayers. They didn't save their precious chapels from being destroyed."

"Can't you leave her alone?" Janus asked.

"No," Crixus returned. "This is what she fucking deserves, for putting her faith in bull-shite fairy tales and treating me like a fucking god."

"Perhaps we were wrong," Janus returned. "Perhaps you're not the best choice for the Ruby Throne."

"Don't you fucking turn on me!" Crixus said, pointing towards Janus: at once he began to feel the same indignation that Eirik felt when the Blades discarded him in favor of Crixus. "I am your _only_ choice, by all the lords of Oblivion! If not me, who? A fucking barbarian like Ulfric or whoever leads the fucking Sons of Skyrim? Or maybe you'd like to just bow down to the Dominion already!"

Janus chuckled. "Your appeals to fear don't affect me," he replied. "I've been a vampire since the days of the Septims. I will outlast everything...even your threats to sell my secrets to your little Mages Guild."

"I've survived death twice," Crixus replied, feeling less confident than his words. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Can you survive a third time?" Janus asked. "With no vampires to save your ass if you get knifed again?"

"But will the Empire survive?" Crixus returned. "If you care so much about the Empire, are you willing to risk its safety by killing me...or letting someone worse than me lead, like the fucking High Chancellor?"

"Honestly," Janus returned. "I don't even think _you_ care about the Empire. All you talk about is yourself, and how much better you are than anyone else, even though there's more blood on your hands than General Tullius."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Crixus replied, shaking his head.

Just as Janus was about to retort, there was a knock at the door. Crixus turned towards the door. "What the fuck is it?"

"Lady Black-Briar wishes to see Servius Crixus," Fenric's voice spoke.

A smile split Crixus' face. "I'll be there." He then turned back to Janus, a broad smile on his face. "Good talk. Must do so again some time."

Janus did not reply as Crixus left the room and followed Fenric to another room on the other side of the upper story. Crixus noted that this door was locked, for Fenric used a key to open it, and ushered Crixus in quickly before shutting and locking the door behind him. Inside the room was one person he never expected to see when it was told that 'Lady Black-Briar' wanted to see him.

"Crixus!" Ingun Black-Briar exclaimed, a smile on her face.

"What are you doing here?" Crixus asked.

"I'm a prisoner in my own family's house!" she groaned.

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"After we were exiled from Skyrim," Ingun replied. "My mother had me locked away in this room. She's kept me from talking to the alchemists in the office of the College of Whispers. I'm a grown woman, dammit! I will not be kept like a dog in a cage! I've grown up, I'm not sleeping with ma like my idiot brother, who thinks being her favorite makes him our father!"

"Well, how can I help?" asked Crixus.

She sighed. "I'm sorry. I've been under house arrest all year. When I heard your voice downstairs, I knew I had to speak to you. To see you again."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

She grinned. "Well, can't I be happy to see you? Especially after all we've been through?" She took a step closer. Then, to his amazement, she leaned in, took his head in her hands and kissed him on the lips.

"I'm not complaining," Crixus breathed.

It had been a long time since they last coupled, though the last time it was without Crixus' consent or knowledge. Crixus was angry and, eager to gain some kind of personal victory, no matter how small, submitted to Ingun's desires. They romped about on the bed, the floor and the walls, with Crixus making Maven's daughter squirm in his lap, gasping and calling out his name between the moans. It felt good, that he was still in control, still able to please women. At last, however, he concluded the love-making and they both collapsed onto her bed, sweaty and exhausted.

* * *

But for Crixus, he was not to enjoy this night. Instead, he saw himself running towards the door, kicking it down with his bare hands, then bounding down the stairs as swift as the wind. Outside he went, running towards the bridge beyond his control. Then, suddenly, he turned to the right and a voice cried out from his mouth, but not in his own voice: "_Wuld...Nah Kest!_" He burst through the night air, coming to a halt upon a cluster of wealthy buildings. Another right and he found himself approaching a building. Again he charged at the door, breaking it down. An Altmer mage cried out in horror, but Crixus had already tackled her to the ground and had his hands around her neck.

"What is the Tower?" the voice demanded.

"I don't know!" the Altmer gasped.

"You small-minded elves can't keep godhood from Lord Miraak!" he demanded. "I've deceived the lords of Oblivion, gone farther down the road of death than anyone still alive. Don't think I won't force the information out of you: what is the Tower?"

"They'd kill me if I told you," the Altmer breathed.

"_I'll_ kill you if you keep it from me!" the voice retorted. "I've taken on the Synod! Do you really think your little College of Whispers can hide the Tower from me? What is it?"

"You'll never be able to understand it," the Altmer replied, shaking her head. "Tiny human minds cannot possibly understand the mysteries of _our_ ancestors. It is not for you, it was never for you: that's why the Dominion hates your human god Talos!"

"What is the Tower?" the voice demanded. "Answer me, b*tch!"

"Crixus, let him go!" another voice suddenly spoke.

"Crixus is gone," the first voice retorted.

"I know you're there," the second voice replied. "Come back. We need you."

In an angry rage, he turned around and charged towards the newcomer, tackling her down and seizing her by the throat. It was another woman, a human woman, dressed in black, with hair that was dull red in the light of the street-lanterns. The newcomer was Atia.

"You won't kill me," she gasped. "Because I know you're still in there..."

"I've seen just how dark the soul of Servius Crixus is, slave," the voice grumbled. "He would kill you if he had to, and never shed a single tear on your behalf."

"What about my child?" she asked.

Only four words, but those four words were enough. Servius Crixus, who had easily bedded over a thousand women in his long years, had always been very careful. Though it still haunted his mind ever since he met Aelina, whether he had caused his goddess to give birth to her or not, he knew that, every time he lay with a woman afterwards, he had taken appropriate measures. Whether by potions or sheep stomachs, he had never gotten any woman he had laid with pregnant. But those four words were enough to awake his mind and shock him back into reality and out of the spell of Miraak's possession.

He remembered vaguely a warmth that engulfed him during his recovery in their monastery in the mountains, but what had happened there? He had to know. His hand relaxed on her neck, but did not release.

"What did you say?" he gasped.

"I've ceased to bleed," Atia replied. "That's usually the way with womankind when we begin the process of carrying."

"Was it me?" he asked. She nodded. "When?"

"The day you regained consciousness," she replied.

Crixus released his grip on her hand, then stepped back in shock. It was the first time he had been told that he had begotten a child, and it was not with anyone he would have preferred. So great was his shock that he did not realize that he was standing in the middle of Cheydinhal at night, stark naked. Atia said nothing as she rose up, removed her cloak and wrapped him in it. Then she walked back to the Altmer woman and helped her up, apologizing for what she called 'the drunken behavior of my husband.' Then she led him back to the Black-Briar manor-house, and placed him in her bed.

He did not sleep at all that night, troubled as he was by suddenly waking up in the streets, naked, with the office of the College of Whispers broken into and one hand on someone's throat. He pondered over and over what he had heard Tiraa tell him about the incident back in Skingrad, what felt like a lifetime ago. After much searching and flogging of his brains, he remembered the name, or rather the title, which she had let slip: the Wanderer. He knew that he would have to find the Wanderer. Whether he decided to become Emperor or not, he had to find the Wanderer and be rid of this entity that was controlling him.

* * *

At morning, a servant arrived with Crixus' clothes which he had left in Ingun's room. These Atia presented to him, but he remained as he had been all that night: sitting on her bed, her cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and a dead expression on his face as he stared forward.

"Your Majesty, please, say something," Atia whispered. "Tell me what's going on. I want to help you if I can." She placed her hand around his shoulders, which felt as though she had embraced a stone. He did not move or respond, but his silence was more than enough. At last, through clenched teeth, he spoke only one word; the same word Lethia had asked him after he saved her in Chorrol.

"Why?"

Atia removed her arm from around his shoulders, feeling rather abashed at what she was about to say.

"The day you came to the monastery," she began. "Janus told me...terrible things about you. He said that you...had ordered the death of four thousand Nords of Bruma, that you burned Sancre Tor to the ground. I didn't want to believe it..."

"It's true," Crixus nodded. Inwardly he felt violated, just as much as he had been when the winged terror violated him: only now he was not being shamed publicly for it. Now he had the opportunity to face the culprit: a strange desire to be honest came over him, if only so that he might hold that honesty over her head to get the truth out of her later.

Atia covered her mouth with her hands when he spoke those words.

"They're fucking barbarians, savages," Crixus replied. "They would have done more harm if I had allowed them to live. What I did, I did for the greater good of the Empire."

"As you told yourself during all your years with the Legion," Atia nodded. "There then is your answer."

"What?" Crixus asked, still keeping his head looking straight on.

"Those who survived Sancre Tor," she continued. "Their stories confirmed what Janus had said. I..." Her lips trembled as she spoke. "...I almost gave up hope. And in my despair, I..." She did not cry out, but her silence said all that Crixus needed to hear.

"I reasoned," she said at last, her voice strong and unwavering. "That if you were unfit, then I would bear a fitting Last Scion, one of your own blood-line. So you see, Crixus, what I did, I also did for the greater good of the Empire."

Crixus did not make an answer. Atia lowered her gaze, then left him be. For the present, Crixus was thinking about his life and all that had transpired up until this point. That this could have happened seemed to him to be the hand of some other power, working to ruin him yet again. There could only be one answer in his mind, one person responsible for what he was going through now: the Grey Spirit. It had inhabited Atia, gave within her the desire to fuck him, then would possess her bastard offspring once it crawled out of her. Then his mortal enemy would have a weapon to strike at him.

"Get rid of it," he whispered to no one in particular.

"What?" Atia asked.

"You heard me," he replied. "If I want an heir, it will be with the woman of my choosing and on my own terms. Kill it."

"If you seek to kill her child," Janus spoke up, stepping from the shadows and between him and Atia. "Then you'll have to come through me."

With a frown, Crixus turned to the bundle of clothes, then began to dress himself. Once he was fully dressed, he went downstairs to the Thieves Guild headquarters. There he found Brynjolf away on business, but the Dunmer Ulain Selaro was there in his stead. With her, to his surprise, was Raynor. When he asked, Raynor told him that she was working with the Thieves Guild on behalf of the Shield of Hlaalu.

"She was the one I had business with," Raynor replied. "It seems that our business is much more complicated than I surmised. I must remain here in Cheydinhal for a few more days than I had expected."

"I see," Crixus nodded. He then turned to Selaro. "What do you know about one called the Wanderer?"

"I've heard of him, serjo," she replied. "Some ancient Dunmer sorcerer, so they say. Last seen in the Upper Niben, in the southern borders of our county. No one knows where he is exactly."

Crixus thanked her, then made his way down the tunnel. After the chaos he caused with the College of Whispers, he decided that leaving publicly was not in his best interests. Through the tunnel he went, going straight on as Brynjolf had shown him. However, a little more than a hundred feet after the sealed off passage to the Chapel of Arkay, Crixus saw another passage off to his right. For a moment he paused, summoning candlelight to see what lay beyond. This tunnel was not very deep and had not been boarded up or sealed with rocks like the chapel passage. For a brief moment, his curiosity got the better of him and he passed into the tunnel, which went roughly straight from the main passage at a slight angle. Then it terminated at a sharp bend, going back the way it had come but at an angle. Into this elbow Crixus passed and saw before him the sight which had given rise to so much mystery and dread in this tunnel.

There was a great stone door, about the height and width of the tunnel. At its head was a great skull carved into the stone, with a hand-print etched upon it. Below was carved the effigy of a woman with an infant corpse in one hand and a knife in the other, held over shorter devotees who were paying her homage. Crixus had seen this exact kind of door twice before in his entire life, in the woods of Falkreath and outside the city of Dawnstar. Surely this was the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary beneath Cheydinhal, where Cicero and Garnag had once dwelt. Now it was nothing more than a place of ghosts and darkness, abandoned as the Dark Brotherhood began to disappear.

But Crixus did not turn aside and pass through the door. His errand lay before him. Therefore he turned aside, walked back to the main tunnel and made the last leg of his trek through the tunnel to the door. It was not sealed and he passed out into the woods directly east of Cheydinhal, untouched by Countess Sarys' woods-mer. Here he summoned Shadowmere and mounted up again.

"We've got a long road ahead of us, old boy," he said. "But I don't think you'll mind it. Hyah!"

* * *

Crixus rode east, west, north and south: from the wasteland near the line of snow, to the foothills of the Velothi Mountains, even down to the shores of Lake Rumare. Nowhere he went could he find a sign or even a rumor of the Wanderer in all of his ways. He rode until the day died in the west, then he rode until he could ride no more for lack of light and rested among the stones and trees, afraid to sleep. When morning came, he summoned Shadowmere again and continued searching, riding even farther south until Cheydinhal disappeared. He had now passed down into the Nibenay Basin, where snow was rarely seen if ever, even in winter. Here he searched and searched until, yet again, the night fell and he could search no more. Two nights had passed and two days spent searching. On the third day he continued his search, passing over the River westward to Cropsford and asking around. Once again he had the same answer: eastward. Retracing his steps, he recrossed the River and continued his search until it seemed that the Wanderer had gone beyond all searching. In despair, he made his last camp and decided to, in the morning, go on his way back to Cheydinhal in defeat.

While he was thus waiting beneath a tree, the cold wind began to blow and Crixus was forced to build a small fire to warm himself. Long into the night he sat, keeping the fire alive as best he could. Then, about midnight, he heard rustling in the woods around him. Immediately he drew his sword, ready to defend himself if it came down to blows. To his surprise, there came forth out of the darkness a Khajiit in the orange robes of a priest of the Divines.

"This one has come far," the Khajiit said. "He saw your fire and came thither. This one only wants a bit of warms to keep off the biting chill of this country."

Crixus sighed, permitting the Khajiit to come by the fire and warm himself.

"Many thanks, stranger," the Khajiit replied. "May your feet always find warm sands. This one is very grateful for your generosity: so grateful that he will tell you what he knows."

"And what do you know?" Crixus asked.

"This one knows much, tells few," quoth the Khajiit. "Asks many questions, questions others do not. For instance: what do your friends do when you are not around them? Do they have lives, stories, interesting things to do? Or do they wait around for you to appear and do things for you? And what about these rumors of were-wyrms? Were-wyrms? Where? Worms? Men that are worms. Is that not what we call an Argonian? This one does not know."

Crixus chuckled. "What else?"

"This one has traveled far, seen much," the Khajiit continued. "But it still puzzles him why people love and respect horrible people over nice people. This one does not understand. But it does not matter. This one loves everyone. Still, they say that this one is a liar. But if this one says 'This one is a liar', is it true or false? If it is truth, then this one cannot be a liar: but if it is false, has not this one told the truth? Many Dunmer has this one known: they are not very nice to outsiders. This one loves everyone. They often tell this one same thing: 'he who knows need not ask and he who asks need not know.' But what is ever known if one does not ask? This one does not know."

The Khajiit's words made no sense, but they were amusing to Crixus. He leaned back, seeming to take no notice of him as he warmed himself by the fire.

"Some people do not like new things," the Khajiit continued. "They fear that new things will take the place of old things. This one is not fearful. For often it is that new things are but additions to the old things, and not replacements. Just because one does not see things does not mean they are not there. Many people could not see the dragons. They believed they were gone. This one knew where they were. This one knows where they all went: dragons, Dwarves, Llevas Dorvayn, Valeria Vulcanis, the Wanderer..."

Crixus perked up his ears at this, turning to the Khajiit. "What did you say?"

"This one knows where the Wanderer may be found," said the Khajiit. "He is a strange elf. From afar, he looks like the daedric soldiers, dressed in their armor. It is said he knows the strange angles to pass between this realm and the realms of Oblivion. He lies east of here. But you must make haste, or he will be gone by the time you come there."

"You are sure?" Crixus asked.

"As sure as anything," the Khajiit returned. "Although, this one is a liar."

In retrospect, it might not have been the best lead for Crixus to follow, but he had exhausted everything else in his search to no avail. He had nothing to lose if he tried it, especially at this point. He gave the Khajiit thanks, then summoned Shadowmere and took off without another word into the night, summoning candlelight to illuminate his path.

* * *

Riding until dawn, Crixus found nothing as he went deeper and deeper into the forests. The snowy uplands he could see in the distance, but still there was nothing. At last, however, he saw two dark figures walking through the woods. At once he called out to them and they stopped. Crixus rode up to them and saw two strange figures. One was a Dunmer woman, clad in nothing but an iron collar about her neck, whose chain was held by the second figure, a Dunmer man. This one was clad from the shoulders down in the black, blood-drenched armor of the dremora soldiers, such as Mehrunes Dagon sent against the armies of Cyrodiil. Indeed, he would have passed for a daedra were it not for his head: blue-gray with a white beard, bald save for a white pony-tail, and squinting red eyes.

"Oh, dear, another filthy _n'wah_," groaned the Dunmer. "Tell me, Beyte, why do I bother with them?"

"They're the only ones here, father," the woman demured.

"That's no excuse," grumbled the male Dunmer to the woman, seeming to ignore Crixus. "There's too many of them. Maybe if there were fewer _n'wahs_, I'd give a fuck if they came whining to me with their problems."

"Pardon me," Crixus spoke, dismounting from Shadowmere. "But who are you?"

"No!" the Dunmer replied. "I don't understand _n'wah_ talk. You have to answer me in the proper way."

"_Mei aloonis, serjo_," Crixus said, speaking in Dunmeri. 'My apologies.'

"Oh, don't bother with that," groaned the Dunmer. "Hearing my father language being butchered on your_ n'wah_ tongue is torture enough! I mean answer in proper words: only then will I respond."

"What proper wor..." Crixus began.

"Uh-huh," the Dunmer replied. "Fewer still."

"Uh...proper words?" Crixus asked.

"If you have a question," the Dunmer replied. "Confine yourself to one or two-word phrases."

Crixus sighed. "Uh, the Wanderer?"

"Yes, ignorant _n'wah_," replied the Dunmer. "I am the Wanderer. Though once upon a time I was Divayth Fyr, the most powerful sorcerer in all of Vvardenfell. Of course I never told the Tribunal that: I let them think they were gods, when it was _I_ who could have beat them to death with my spear!"

"Uh, spear?" Crixus asked.

"Of course, spear!" Fyr returned. "The thing between your legs, if you have one. My daughter Beyte doesn't have one." He grinned. "I like that. Makes fucking her all that much more...pleasurable."

"Fucking her?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, I forgot," grumbled Fyr. "You _n'wahs_ and your morals. By Vivec's spear, when will you people open your eyes and stop being so...closed minded? Some people like incest, we call those people Redoran filth. Some people like fucking their ancestors, and we call those filthy _n'wahs_ Hlaalu and kill them on sight. Some men with spears like fucking other men with spears, and we call those Indoril priests. While I, like many others, like fucking his daughters. Sort of."

"Sort of?" Crixus was getting rather annoyed at being so confined in his speech. It reminded him of Neloth.

"That is to say that Beyte is not my daughter," he replied. "Not in the traditional sense of sticking my spear into some filthy whore's cunt! Ugh! Disgusting, vile! Wretched! Unhealthy! Why anyone would choose that is beyond me! No, back in my day, before the Red Mountain erupted, there was Corprus everywhere, thanks to the Sixth House. I conducted experiments on those infected, who, in time, came to my Corprusarium. Using my own flesh, I grafted many lovely daughters for myself: they assist me with things, like carrying heavy objects, cooking my food, defending me, and keeping my spear in their mouths, or their asses."

"What?" Crixus asked.

"They are not my daughters really," Fyr returned. "They are me!" He laughed. "Oh, what greater pleasure could a mer have than fucking himself in the ass! Not since Vivec lay with Molag Bal had such joy ever been endured by one of my race! Alas, Beyte is the only one left. Her sisters I left behind when the Red Mountain erupted: they're all dead now. I just couldn't be bothered saving them!" He threw back his head and laughed merrily.

"Uh, whatever," Crixus sighed. Had he really come all this way for a madman? "Uh, listen..."

"Uh uh uh," Fyr dismissed. "Fewer words, _n'wah_."

"Look, I don't have time for this!" Crixus groaned. "I heard that you could help me with my problem. Is that true or not?"

Fyr groaned. "Fine, you ignorant _n'wah_. Always trying to force your _n'wah_ culture on us, your _n'wah_ beliefs, your _n'wah_ Empire and your _n'wah_ language! It's disgusting!"

"Just answer my question, please!"

"How can I answer if you don't tell me what ails you?"

Crixus gave Divayth Fyr a brief description of his possession and the events that led up to it. All that while, Fyr stroked his bearded chin pensively. At last, when Crixus finished, Fyr spoke.

"Well," he began. "First off, I would like you to know that you're fucking crazy! Stupid _n'wah_! What you speak of is a myth told by pale, superstitious, beast-worshiping _n'wahs_ on Solstheim: there is no proof that Miraak ever existed. If anyone should know these things, it should be _me!_ _I_ know everything! I've even walked through the realms of Oblivion in my long years. I know so much, Hermaeus Mora has come to be, begging me for knowledge. And I've refused him! So, obviously, if something doesn't enter into my knowledge, it does not exist!"

"But..."

"I mean!" exclaimed Fyr. "Those filthy white _n'wahs_ in Sk-rim think they're so old and so special! But their ancient things really aren't that ancient: no older than two hundred years, I'd say. Everything came into existence after the Oblivion Crisis came to an end and no earlier."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Crixus asked, his patience wearing out.

"Shut up, you filthy_ n'wah!_" Fyr snapped. "What do you think this is, AMA? _I_ am doing the talking! Now, as I said, if I don't know about it, most certainly it does not exist." He grumbled. "However, I have also seen many strange things in my day. So it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility that what you speak of might be true...highly unlikely as it is!"

"Can you do something about this?" Crixus asked.

Fyr snorted. "Perhaps. I know a few rituals that might exorcise this spirit from you. What would you be willing to give, hmm? Perhaps maybe you would stand there and stroke your spear while I put mine in Beyte's ass? That would certainly be delicious!"

"No, no spear-stroking," Crixus dismissed.

"Hmm, very well," Fyr capriciously replied. "I can't help you."

"Wait, wait!" Crixus spoke. "There must be something you want!"

"I don't want anything!" Fyr replied. "I have whatever I want and the power to summon it whenever I want."

"What about my Voice?" Crixus asked. "Will you take my Voice? I don't need it, I don't use it. You take it!"

"What's this?" Fyr asked. "Voice? Oh, you must mean the Wind-Break. Filthy _n'wahs_ have other names for it, of course: the sand monkey _n'wahs_ call it 'Sword-Song', and the savage, white _n'wahs_ call it 'the Voice' or 'Thu'um.' The Akavir had another name for it: Hachimurro-Bae. I prefer 'Wind-Break.' Yes, yes, I know, it sounds like flatulence: that's the point! Anything to belittle n'wah things, of course!"

"Well, take my Voice, then!" Crixus repeated.

"I don't need it either," Fyr returned. "I could have taken out my spear and beaten Aka-Tosh to death when he appeared in Sk-rim, but I didn't feel like it. I'm not in the habit of doing everything for you filthy, lazy, ignorant n'wahs! Do it yourselves! Who do you think I am, Vivec?"

"Father, shall we go?" Beyte spoke up.

"Shut up, b*tch!" Fyr retorted. "Don't speak unless spoken to!" He then turned to Crixus. "And as for you, filthy _n'wah_: you have nothing to offer me to kiss your ass and perform a miracle for you! Go find some other living god to bother with your petulant whining, I'm busy sucking my own spear!"

"_Gol...Hah Dov!_" Crixus shouted, using the memory of Miraak's power. Fyr suddenly collapsed to his knees before Crixus, a fearful look in his red eyes as he chanted in the daedric tongue, trying to counter this unknown power.

"See what I can do?" Crixus said to Fyr. "If I wanted, I could make you snap your own neck, or serve me forever as my slave! Do you see what kind of power I have? No one should have that power! I don't want it: take it away!"

With that, Crixus dismissed his control over Fyr, who stood up and composed himself with a chuckle.

"Ha, I meant to do that," he lied, very much like the Tribunal of old. "I humbled myself before you, knowing that you could never truly dominate me. If I had remained standing before you, it would have shattered your fragile, _n'wah_ mind. You would be unable to understand how your great power could be broken by me!"

In truth, however, Fyr had not faced such power before. He was not alive during the Merethic Era, when Miraak first walked the face of Nirn and dragons ruled all of Tamriel. Indeed, the Velothi, living as nomadic tribes in the volcanic wastes of Vvardenfell, lived in fear of the dragons and wrote no tales about them, but they never challenged their authority. Even in the days of the Tongues, when Jurgen Windcaller was driven out of Resdayn, Fyr had not taken part of that battle and knew not the power of the Voice: a gift of the gods spurned by his Chimer ancestors to humans through the children of Akatosh. The might of the Voice made him quiver with fear, for it took out of his hands the power to control himself. Therefore, though he did not let on outwardly, he decided inwardly to condescend.

"Nevertheless," he said. "I will humor an _n'wah_ and cleanse you of this spirit possessing you. We'll call it my good deed for the century and leave it at that, shall we? Beyte, hand me a soul gem!" Beyte summoned a bag, from whence she removed a teal gem about the size of a sweet-roll, which she gave to Fyr.

"Hold this, now," Fyr said, giving the gem to Crixus. "I will then perform the ritual and, when it is done, the soul of this...thing will be inside the gem. And we'll see about taking the Wind-Break from you."

Crixus stepped back as Fyr began to chant in the daedric tongue. There was a green flash and suddenly all seemed to slow down to an absolute crawl. Divayth Fyr's chanting quieted down until it was an inaudible murmur at the edge of hearing. Crixus spoke, but his voice was not his own: it was the voice of Miraak.

"How dare you!" he roared. "You would throw away your gift, your birthright! With such power, you could take any throne you desired: all of Tamriel would bow down at your feet! Yet you squander your gift away for pitance!"

Through great struggle, Crixus was able to force out four defiant words, spoken without irony in his heart despite the fact that, according to Zurin Arctus, his actions were a direct refutation of his words.

"_**I...am...not...Talos!**_"

With that, the woods of the Upper Nibenay Basin vanished and he saw himself once again in a dark mist. Looking around, he began to see the images which he had seen in the mist. But now he saw them clearly and could hear their voices, even as if he was with them. First he saw a great dragon with gray-green scales sitting upon a pinnacle of rock, and a Nord man who looked very much like himself bowing before him.

"_Su'um Laas Dulsos,_" the great dragon spoke. "_Receive now the gift of Kaan, and arise now as a joorekaal. I name you Dovahkiin, firstborn of the Dragon's blood. May this blessing be used in the vahzah praagtiide which is soon to come. Vonok, Miraak, Dovahkiin diist._"

Again the image shifted, and he now saw a great dark chasm, dimly lit and filled with smoke. There two golden elves stood, with one gazing upon something glowing in the rock. One of the elves, who was clad in nothing but a loin-cloth, had in his hand a spear. Suddenly, he thrust the spear into the other elf through the back.

"_I'm afraid there's been a change of plans_," the spear-wielding elf muttered, his voice echoing throughout the cavern. "_It is our birthright, and if you hesitate, Indoril, then you shall die_."

There was a shifting of scenes again and Crixus saw a strange, desolate land. There were several short, scaly and ugly creatures with leathery hoods and flat, nose-less faces with fangs, gathered in a ring around a fallen Dunmer. The Dunmer, clad in the armor of House Indoril Ordinators, seemed to be dying.

"_No!_" he sneered. "_I...cannot die! I am Nerevarine! I am Hortator...I am Moon and Stars! I am the god-killer! I...cannot...die..._"

In that moment, the snake-people attacked him in a wriggling, writhing mass of scaly tails and arms. Suddenly there was a loud cry and blood burst from the crowds. Then, just as soon as it had appeared, it vanished yet again. Now he saw a great silvery giant, kneeling before a woman with dark hair, clad in armor.

"_Fare thee well,_" the silver giant said. "_Sheogorath, Prince of Madness._"

The woman turned to Crixus and he saw, to his surprise, the face was the face of the woman he had seen in the visions in the dungeons of Blacklight. The dark hair and the eyes were the same as his, though there had been many long generations between them.

Again the scene changed and he saw a young man with dark hair and a short beard, in a room standing before men in their finest Colovian garb.

"_All have been paid for their loyalty,_" one of the noblemen replied. "_As long as you remain loyal to the Empire, the Empire will recognize and honor the sovereignty of your throne._"

"_Long live the Empire,_" the young man replied, forming the salute.

The scene shifted and he saw an assembly of men and women in Solitude. They seemed to be talking over something, with one of them raising his voice most vehemently, appealing towards the young man. After a while, the young man turned to one Crixus recognized as Falk Fire-beard.

"_Master Fire-beard_," the young man said. "_What do you think? He certainly makes a convincing argument._"

"_My lord!_" Falk retorted. "_Please, be ruled by my counsel, and refuse him! Without the Empire, the Dominion will surely destroy us all! We are too weak to stand alone. His words are treason!_"

Again he saw the image shift, and saw the young man shivering in the courtyard of the Blue Palace. There was a loud battle-cry, and then, to Crixus' amazement, he saw the young man fall down as if struck. He struggled back to his feet as a large, bear-like man charged at him with a sword. He rose his sword to defend himself, but in three passes the sword was knocked from his hand and a swift blow struck him down.

Then the image faded and Crixus saw the mist begin to depart, and a bright beam of light at the end thereof. In the distance, he could see the faint images of towers rising up into the sky: all of them with their own light, but none brighter than the first light he saw It shined upward, drawing his eyes thither, until he saw a great sphere with many spokes and wheels within it. He saw one piece fall from it until it crashed into the abysmal ocean below. Then his eyes were drawn back to the light, which grew brighter and brighter. For some reason, he knew that, on the other side of the mist, was what he saw.

But the light faded and he found himself back in the woods, with Fyr kneeling on the ground, breathing heavily. Crixus looked down and noticed the soul gem he was holding was glowing brightly.

"Is it...is it done?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, _n'wah_, it is done," groaned Fyr. He then rose from where he was kneeling, a pallid expression upon his face. "What did you see?"

Crixus told him everything he saw, leaving nothing out. When he got to the sphere, Fyr suddenly cut him off.

"You will tell no one of this blasphemous filth!" he sneered.

"Why?" asked Crixus.

"Or would you like being hunted by all the educated wizards in all of Tamriel?" asked Fyr. "Why, the very idea that Aurbis is a sphere! How dare you even insinuate!"

"Is it the Tower?" Crixus suddenly spoke. "It has something to do with the Tower, doesn't it?"

"What do you know of the Tower, ignorant n'wah?"

"Nothing!" Crixus returned. "Nobody's ever told me anything! Fuck, the last time I asked, I was almost killed!"

"Exactly," Fyr nodded. "The path to the Tower is heavily guarded, and rightly so. It is not a thing that simply anyone can achieve, and certainly not you humans."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Have you never read the twenty-first Lesson of Vivec?" Fyr asked. "It reveals the truth about the Walk-About, the never-action, the shake-fast, the gift-limbs and the secret of CHIM. But it is a wheel, not a sphere! It _cannot_ be a sphere!"

"Why not?" Crixus asked.

"Because then," Fyr frustratedly replied. "Then I can't be god!"

"What?" Crixus asked.

"When our ancestors left," Fyr stated. "They showed us ways to return to our rightful place among them as gods. The wheel of creation, Aurbis, not a sphere, when viewed from the side, shows the only name of god: I. I am god. That is the truth that Vivec learned when Azura blessed him with divinity. But it's not for you _n'wahs_! Only mer! Only mer can become gods! The path does not belong to you!"

"Why not?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, just like you filthy _n'wahs_, right?" Fyr asked. "Always trying to take everything from us! First you take us away from our ancestors, then you take our land, now you want to take away from us our birthright!"

"I never said that," Crixus replied. "Look, I don't want to be a god. I don't need gods! I'm good enough on my own, thank you very much. And without this crutch, I will be an even greater man because of it." He looked at the Miraak soul gem in his hand, then prepared to throw it to the ground.

"I would keep that if I were you, _n'wah_," Fyr replied. "It might be more useful than you realize."

Crixus stowed it away reluctantly into one of his pouches on his side, then turned to Fyr. "My thanks, great sorcerer."

"Don't thank me yet," Fyr replied. "Not until all is done and the Dunmer see the world of _n'wahs_ brought to an end will I be happy. You _n'wahs_ very existence is an insult to all mer, and that insult cannot be allowed to go unpunished."

"Right," Crixus said. He then took the Shadowmere amulet and summoned his horse again, swiftly mounting up and preparing to leave.

"Before you go," Fyr spoke up. "I would share with you a secret, Servius Crixus."

"How do you know my name?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, did you think you were the only one to receive a vision as I purged you?" Fyr asked. "No, I learned much about you, and there is something that you should know." Crixus leaned down from the saddle as Fyr walked over and whispered into his ear. Crixus' face blanched at the revelation and he kicked Shadowmere's flanks and held on for dear life, the mocking laughter echoing in concert with the two last words of Divayth Fyr:

_She's alive._

* * *

**(AN: Hopefully this makes up for the last chapter.)**

**(Yes, i eviscerated Divayth Fyr and made him a complete lunatic. Because what sane person is having sex with themselves/their daughters? However [and here you can judge me and my perverted mind], being a student of many things, comparative mythology being such a thing, i realized just how much real life pagan symbolism Kirkbride thrust into his lore. Aurbis, the Wheel [in my version, a Sphere: you can clearly see why], obviously is the Solar Wheel and the Tower is the phallic obelisk. Does that then mean that, in Kirkbride's lore, sex is the way to godhood? i know, it actually means "I", which is dumb and humanistic: likely the real reason everyone worships him.)**

**(This chapter was going to be much weirder, with Fyr talking in HTML, _Morrowind_-style copy-paste dialogue [complete with -insert hyperlink- at various points], txt and making references to "the television heads" from _C0da_, but that would have been too weird, even for him. I did, however, make him the way you all consider the old guide archetype with your modern eyes: as an unhelpful douche whom you think should do everything for the hero and is evil for not doing everything for him [i've seen these complaints brought against EVERY wise old sage, be it Yoda, Dumbledore, Obi-Wan, Galadriel, or even the Judeo-Christian God]. And before you go 'but you can't mock Kirkbride, because your Christianity is just as weird.' No, just no. I've read the holy books and there is NOTHING in the Judeo-Christian tradition quite like Divayth Fyr and the fourteenth chapter of _The 36 Lessons of Vivec_ [which chapter is basically _South Park_'s parody of _Game of Thrones_: a bunch of wieners flopping around in everyone's face])**


	48. Last Blood to Be Shed

**(AN: -sigh- No, i don't want to finish this story. It's become a burden, writing about someone who is a complete tool in a culture i honestly don't care about, beset by all the troubles i'm beset with on a day-to-day basis!)**

* * *

**Last Blood to Be Shed**

Crixus sped back to Cheydinhal as fast as Shadowmere could take him. His mind ablaze with Fyr's last words. _She's alive._ But who was she? It could mean any number of people. Lady Arannelya? Of course she was alive. He had seen her in the Imperial City during his captivity: and, unless some great and unheard of catastrophe had recently taken place, she was still alive for all he knew. Selvia? Had she survived? Had someone slipped her the antidote to whatever poison had been administered and secreted her away? Was it his goddess? He didn't know how long camp followers lasted, but he guessed that it could not be very long. Surely it wasn't his mother, for he had gone to her grave many times in his life. One of his earliest memories was of sadness at his mother's funeral, when she was at last bound and buried in the sad little cemetery outside the walls of Anvil. He tried to think of other women who had an impact on his life. It could mean, of course, his Dunmer wife from Mournhold. But he never gave her much thought beyond how she filled his desire for drink. Aelina was certainly alive, as far as he knew, as were Elisif, Karliah, Maven, Ingun and even Vex, who could have been said to have the least amount of influence in his life. That left only one other person.

Sedris Ulver, the Dunmer witch that had seduced and bewitched his father and held tyranny over their house until Crixus and Venerius left to join the Legion. But it could not be her, it just couldn't be. She was dead. He had buried her himself, watched with his own eyes as the corpse was consigned to the earth. She could not have survived. Nevertheless, his skin crawled at the bringing up of her memory again. Long had he buried the memory with cheap Morrowind spirits and all the beer and ale he could afford between High Rock and Cyrodiil.

He went on, traveling steadily northward, until a blizzard blew down from the early winter upon his path. Stranded in the wilderness with almost no supplies, Crixus could not carry on his journey. Instead, he found himself a tree, cut down a few branches and made for himself a little shelter at the bottom of the tree. There he slept as best he could, wrapping himself in his heavy fur cloak. For how long he laid there, bundled in a make-shift shelter as the snows fell about him, he did not know. Ever and anon his ears would hear the endless howling of the bitter cold winds and he would know that the blizzard had not abated.

One day, he had forgotten how long ago since the blizzard began, the sound of whistling, howling wind came to an end. Crixus tried to open up his shelter and found that it was buried in snow. Forcing his way out, he saw that the lands around him were covered in snow, a foot deep at the lowest. He then summoned Shadowmere, mounted up again and, pushing the horse to its utmost limits, rode all the way to Cheydinhal that day.

When he arrived at the western gate, after surrendering his weapons, he found the city bustling about, busy as ever on the western side. The snows had been cleared away from the road and it was easier walking his horse there than in the drifts. No sooner had he arrived in the city, but that he noticed four figures dressed as travelers in fur cloaks begin to trail him. Rather than going immediately back to the Black-Briar manor-house with these four on his trail, he decided to go instead to his favorite haunt, the Newland Hall, and hopefully lose them. But no sooner had he sat down and ordered a drink when he saw the others arrive as well and make their way to a table. Casually Crixus watched them, eager to discern what they were and if they were easy of conquest or hard. Unfortunately, they all seemed like very strong folk. Two were very tall, and the larger of the two clearly an Orc, though he could not see a face. The other two seemed like soldiers of average height for Colovians. He could not see any weapons on them, as they, like he, had been stripped of weapons before coming into the city. This certainly didn't make the fight any easier if they all attacked at once.

Suddenly the largest one got up from his seat and began to approach Crixus' table. He got up to move, then noticed the large Orc pushing his way through the crowds. Crixus turned to run, but the large beast threw himself forward, knocking Crixus to the ground.

"Get the fuck off me!" Crixus shouted. His attacker did not, crawling towards him and seizing his mouth in the iron grip of its fist. With the other hand, the Orc removed its hood: it was Garnag.

"We need to talk privately," Garnag replied.

The Orc took Crixus away into one of the upper rooms in the Newland Hall. As he pushed the door down, there were cries: Garnag had pushed down the door of an occupied room, and both of its occupants were huddled under a blanket on the bed, presumably naked.

"Out!" demanded Garnag.

The two hastily picked up their clothes, then ran towards the door, which Garnag shut fast behind him, then released his grip on Crixus' mouth.

"What are you doing here?" Crixus asked. "Who are those others with you? Is it the others? Are they here?"

"Not all the others," Garnag replied. "The four of us managed to escape: myself, Viator, Petruvius and Boderic."

"Escape?" Crixus asked. "What's happened?"

"After the Orc cohort left Cloud Ruler Temple," Garnag began. "The Nord mercenaries you had hired grew restless. Then word came of what happened in Bruma."

"Oh, gods above!" Crixus groaned.

Garnag chuckled. "I don't fault you for it. I enjoyed myself then: if only we could have killed more in the name of Sithis. But the Nords didn't like it. They've taken the others hostage outside of Cloud Ruler Temple."

"What?" Crixus demanded.

"It's true," nodded Garnag.

"What about the Blades?" Crixus asked. "Didn't they stop them?"

"The leader of the mercenaries," Garnag said. "Shouted with his voice and the gates were blown to pieces. Then he and his mercenaries took the others out of the fort and imprisoned them in a small camp outside."

"Didn't the others fight back?" Crixus asked.

"Petruvius led the escape and the others went with him," Garnag stated. "The Snow Elf ran as well, but the others were captured. Only Viator and Boderic were able to evade capture."

"Shite!" Crixus exclaimed. "They've broken their vows of loyalty! How dare he!" Crixus ran his hands over his head. "We'll have to go back. I have to remind this little white fuck that _I_ own him." Crixus had not shouted since the ritual, but whether or not he still had the Voice was immaterial: he had not had another possessed vision from Miraak and he did not have to tell Eirik that he had lost the Voice.

"As you wish," Garnag nodded.

"Just give me a few minutes," Crixus replied. "We'll leave as soon as I'm ready."

Crixus left the Newland Hall for the Black-Briar manor-house. What he found once he got there was that Atia and Janus had already left, telling no one where they would be going. From there he went downstairs and spoke with Brynjolf, hoping to get a clear answer out of him regarding whether he would help him or not. Thankfully, in this matter, Brynjolf decided to be frank and gave him a straight-forward answer.

"You've always been helpful to the Thieves Guild," he said. "So I don't see why you'd turn on us now. We're with you in whatever you have in mind."

Truth be told, Crixus had nothing in mind for them to help with immediately. He did, however, rightly guess that financial backing would be needed once he took the Ruby Throne. And if the East Empire Co. and the Merchants Guild wouldn't receive him willingly, he would use the Thieves Guild to coerce them to receive him. With this secured for the moment, Crixus made his way upstairs to leave at once. But as he was making his way up the stairs, he saw Fenric standing at the top of the stairs.

"Lady Black-Briar wishes to speak to you," he said.

Crixus sighed, fearing delays would postpone his journey back to Bruma indefinitely. However, he also had a soft-spot for Ingun Black-Briar, despite her being a Nord. He walked up the stairs and went to her room. Fenric opened the door and allowed Crixus to go inside.

"Yes?" Crixus asked. "You sent for me?"

"Indeed," Ingun replied. "I wanted to thank you for last night. I don't know what came over you afterwards, but, for what it's worth, I enjoyed myself. It's not often I get to have such...pleasures."

"Well, then, the honor is mine," Crixus grinned.

"If you're free tonight..." she began.

"No," Crixus dismissed. "I'm leaving. Back to Bruma."

"Where will you go afterwards?" she asked.

"Back here, but only for a while," he replied. "Then..."

"Yes?"

"Can you keep a secret?" She nodded, taking a step closer to him. "Then, I go to the Imperial City. I can say no more on this."

"I understand," she nodded. "Before you set out, take this with you." She walked over to her bed and pulled out a large leather bag. Inside she removed a small case bound in fur that had in it several vials and bottles for potions.

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"The Imperial City can be a dangerous place," she replied, removing one of the vials and handing it to Crixus. "You might find yourself in need of a clandestine means of...removing people in your path. This can be of help to you."

"Poison?" Crixus muttered. "No, I can't take this, not while you can't replenish your stock of potions and ingredients."

"It's alright," Ingrun replied. "It will serve me little use sitting under my bed, gathering dust. Perhaps with you it could be put to good use."

"If you insist..."

"I do."

Crixus took the bottle and stowed it in a pouch on his belt. Then he bowed to her and turned to knock on the door of her room. Fenric answered and he was quickly ushered out. From there, he descended the stairs and ran back outside the Black-Briar manor-house. There he told Garnag and the others to go on ahead without him to the west gate, while he went to the guards for his weapons.

After he managed to convince the guards that he was indeed leaving and not smuggling weapons into the city, Crixus got his weapons back and rejoined the others waiting for him at the front of the gates. Here he summoned Shadowmere and, with them, rode off westward, down the cobblestone road. No sooner had they gone but the path began to turn southward, towards the Imperial City. Here Garnag turned his horse to the right, off the main road. The others silently followed him, but Crixus, who remained at the rear, spoke up.

"How did you find me?" Crixus asked.

"You told me to take the others here," Garnag stated. "I came here in search of you after we had finished up in Bruma. That's when I found Petruvius: he seemed rather upset that you hadn't given him the order."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. He then leaned around in his saddle. "Is that right, Petruvius? Upset that I delegated orders to someone other than you?" But Petruvius made no answer.

"Come on, it's alright if you were," Crixus continued. "There's no shame in being a bit selfish." But still Petruvius made no answer.

They rode on silence for most of the day. The highlands started to rear their heads before them, and the tall, orange, red, brown or naked trees began to be replaced with tall pines and patches here and there of snow and gentle winds began to blow down from the mountains. The farther they went, the fiercer the wild winds blew, bringing snow the farther north they went. Yet Garnag refused to relent or allow any rest along their way.

* * *

On and on they pressed, until the daylight began to fade in the western sky. At last, cold and weary and the sun all but sunken in the violet horizon, Garnag brought them to a well-traveled road higher in the mountains. Near this road there was a cave, where Garnag said they would rest for the evening. They remained at the mouth of the cave, lighting a small fire to keep out the cold while they wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Viator and Garnag said little, and Boderic spent the night in prayer until at last he became so weary that he fell asleep. Only Crixus and Petruvius remained awake, but Petruvius would not speak to Crixus or answer any of his questions.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Crixus asked. "Gods, I thought you were my servant, obedient to me in all things. Must I indeed order you to speak?" Still Petruvius remained silent. After a while, Crixus gave up trying to talk to him and instead turned his attention outwards to the road, keeping watch over their campground. After a few minutes, Petruvius finally spoke.

"All my life," he said, speaking slowly and with measured words, his eyes still focused on the little fire. "I have lived in service to the Empire. I was raised to honor and cherish the Empire as the only hope for mankind in a world of savagery and lawlessness. I swore oaths to honor and serve the officers of the Empire with unwavering obedience." By this time, Crixus was looking in his direction. As soon as he had finished speaking, Petruvius turned to Crixus, deep concern in his eyes.

"So tell me, then, Crixus," he continued. "What should I do? How can I continue to serve you after what you did in Bruma?"

"It was necessary," Crixus groaned. "They're fucking savages, barbarians. They would have turned on us eventually. Better to be safe than sorry."

"But surely not the women and children!" Petruvius continued.

"No, the women and children as well," Crixus replied. "Children cannot be left alive if you kill their parents, they'll grow up to threaten you. And I didn't kill the women: I gave them the best thing they could ever hope for in their pathetic barbaric lives. I gave them the privilege of wiping out the white race of Nords, on pain of death."

"How could you?" Petruvius asked. "After all we've been through? What will Torgrim say? What will Elisif say?"

"Shut the fuck up," Crixus snapped. "I don't need that kind of traitor's talk from you."

"Listen to yourself!" Petruvius retorted. "You sound obsessed!"

"Choose your next words carefully," Crixus stated. "I have punitive measures lined up for your treacherous arse."

"I'm not a traitor!" Petruvius snapped. "I haven't done anything to betray your secrets to anyone. I swear before all the gods! Truly, I am trying to understand why I should...no, how I can possibly continue to serve you after what you've done!"

"Because I'll have you killed if you leave my service," Crixus replied.

"I'd be willing to risk that," Petruvius retorted. "Give me a better reason."

"I've done...questionable things before," Crixus dismissed. "Remember Karthwasten? You always found some way to excuse what I did then. Why is now any different?"

"There was always some presidence before," Petruvius sighed. "Karthwasten was necessary for securing peaceful relations with the Kingdom of the Reach. But now, after what I've seen, what reason is there to slaughter so many people in Cyrodiil?"

"Wait, you saw?" Crixus asked.

"When Eirik took the others out of Cloud Ruler Temple," Petruvius began. "Lethia fled. I followed her until she told me to forbear." He seemed rather shaken by this and reached up his hands to rub at his eyes before speaking on. "The next day, Garnag found me and I went with him to find you. We...passed through the southernmost part of the Legion camp outside of Bruma. I saw the bodies being buried in their mass graves, I heard the lamentation of men, women and children, and I saw the streams of blood. There was no way I could dismiss this as being lies told by your enemies. No one knows you better than I do."

"Nobody knows me at all!" Crixus retorted. "You think you know me, boy? You have no right to judge me. You don't know shite!"

"Is that your apology for your actions?" Petruvius asked. "'Shut up because you don't know me?' I do know you, sir! I've been with you since you joined Tullius' Legions. I know what you've said before regarding Nords. You might think I'm an idiot, but I'm not. This action has you written all over it."

"So what if it does, huh?" Crixus returned. "What are you going to do? Run away like a little b*tch and whine about how bad I am to Eirik? Fucking b*tch."

"No!" Petruvius shouted. The others stirred in their beds, and he sighed, then lowered his voice. "I will continue to serve you as I have served you before. But I can neither ignore what you did in Bruma, nor pretend as though your actions are irreproachable. If you wish to kill me for that, then so be it."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Crixus returned. "Before this whole ordeal is over, the last blood to be shed will not be yours." His words were not comforting to Petruvius, but they were not meant to be. More people would die before he took the Ruby Throne, this he knew of a certain. One of them certainly had to be High Chancellor Buteo. But there were other loose ends that needed to be tied up, such as would reveal themselves in time.

* * *

The morning arrived cold and dark in the cave, and outside it was cold and bright. The hard winter had come, and there was great snow upon the ground and a chill wind bringing more from the mountains. They ate very little of what supplies Garnag had brought with them: mostly dried and salted meat, which was loath to spoil: but they had no water and wine did little to ease their thirst. After they had all eaten, Garnag spoke to Crixus regarding what must surely happen.

"Today," he said. "Is the fourteenth day of Evening Star. For sixteen days we have sought you out, after what happened at Cloud Ruler Temple. Now I trow you wish to return there?"

"Yes, I wish that," Crixus replied. "And as for you, Garnag, you may depart and go to Cheydinhal. There is there something which you might find of use to you. Ask Brynjolf in the Black-Briar manor-house."

"No," Garnag shook his head. "I will go with you. Until all is said and done, I will not leave your side."

"Very well," Crixus sighed. He then turned to the others. "And what about you?"

"If you're going back to kick some Nord arse," Viator stated. "Then count me in. I'd long to test my strength upon one of those savage fuckers." Petruvius nodded without saying a word, but Boderic was unreadable, his helmet already upon his head, obscuring his face.

"At our present speed," Garnag continued. "We should arrive in Bruma within four days, if we are not waylaid. I had not counted on this snow, though. There are snows in the Wrothgarian Mountains, where my people are from, all the year around, but never this much in Cheydinhal before the onset of winter. I fear that this also will slacken our pace."

"Would that my lord," Petruvius suddenly spoke. "Could clear the blizzard for us, to speed us on our way."

"Why don't you shut the fuck up?" Crixus retorted. "Am I to be expected to do fucking everything? Why isn't that precious little white cunt Eirik doing anything about this storm, huh? Why don't you go b*tch to him about clearing it for us?" Petruvius did not answer him.

"Nothing will be gained by arguing," Garnag interjected. "We must leave now, or it won't matter if the snow abates now or in a week."

They gathered up their things and mounted their horses in silence. Their beasts had been brought into the cave for warmth, with the exception of Shadowmere. Once more, at the mouth of the cave, Crixus summoned the shadow horse yet again and continued on with the group. He noticed that Boderic was staring at the horse periodically in their ride, but as of yet said nothing.

The road they were taking wound up into the lower regions of the eastern Colovian Highlands, slowly by degrees. Aside from the occasional skeletal fingers of dead plants protruding from the snow on either side, there was little to distinguish the road from the snows all around them. Being that most creatures this far down in the hills were not accustomed to the cold, they encountered very few beasts along their journey.

By evening, they arrived at the borders of Fort Horunn. Here Crixus insisted that they remain until morning, for there were still members of Tullius' Legions here. These had not taken part of the slaughter in the north, though they had seen the fires and heard, carried upon the cold winds out of the north, the cries of the dying. These also were yet loyal and had not, as the border-forts near Valenwood and Elsweyr, fallen into outlawry due to neglect, and welcomed Crixus and his companions. He asked them of the whereabouts of General Tullius, and they told him that he had left.

"Where is he?" asked Crixus.

"He's gone southward to Fort Chalman," replied the legate in charge of Fort Horunn. "It is said that, ere the year has come to an end, he will enter the Imperial City through the Weye Promenade and receive a triumph from the Emperor himself."

Crixus said nothing. For his part, he had told his companions that the Emperor was dead, but had told those with him here not to speak on such matters. Wherefore Crixus pressed the legate as best he could on the triumph that was to take place: specifically regarding who would be there and what time of day it would be. The legate knew little, save that the Emperor and the Elder Council would be there and the members of the House of Nobles. But no more he knew.

The legate permitted Crixus and his companions a few supplies for their journey, for they were well stocked. They had tents for themselves, and therefore had no need to take up any of the rooms in the barracks. After they had said their peace, they retired to their tents and slept. But Crixus and Boderic did not sleep. The young man was deep in prayer and Crixus rarely ever slept. Tonight, however, he pondered what Petruvius had said. He climbed onto a tower of the fort that looked east, the Miraak soul gem in his hands. There was a chill wind blowing from the north and snow falling heavily. Here now he looked up at the dark sky and cried out:

"_Lok...Vah Koor!_"

There was no burst of power as he spoke the words. Yea, he had marked how, when he spoke before, a great surge of power built up in his throat until he spoke the final two words and the power burst forth like a hurricane. Now he only spoke words, words in a tongue that he knew only as a memory of that spoken by Eirik. They bore no power on his tongue anymore, and the blizzard did not abate. He did not speak again, but instead glanced down at the gem in his hands. Just what power had Divayth Fyr called forth to remove from his body the Voice? Even if Crixus believed not _The Arcturian Heresy_, that Tiber Septim lost the Voice from nothing greater than a cut on the throat gave him hope that it was now gone. But how it had been carried about he knew not: Crixus was only thankful that it was gone, for he deemed that he needed it not.

He then turned now back to his tent and saw Boderic sitting up in his place by his tent. He was not praying, but his helmet was removed and his eyes were closed. The others were asleep and Crixus, for a brief moment, spoke his full mind.

"Do you know what they say about me?" he asked Boderic. "About what happened in Bruma?"

Boderic nodded but spoke no words.

"Yet you haven't voiced your disapproval at my actions," Crixus noted. "Normally I would be happy in this regard, hoping that, despite my better knowledge, some measure of fealty lies within you. But I know you too well. Tell me, Boderic Vesnia, last of the Knights of the Nine: do not the Nine disagree with what I did in Bruma? Do they not condemn my actions? Why then have you not spoken out against me? Rebuked the murderer with all the vigor of some self-righteous prick, as you're wont to do?"

Boderic remained silent, his eyes closed, for a very long while. Crixus, growing impatient, made his way to his tent. He was about to step inside when he heard Boderic at last break his silence and speak.

"The Nine teach us the importance of forgiveness," he began. "Those who confess their errors of a contrite heart will be welcomed back into the loving arms of the Nine. Whether you are contrite is not for me to judge: only the Nine know if you are truly sincere. But their mercy and love is freely given to all: why then should I deny it to you?"

"I don't need forgiveness," Crixus dismissed. Now that Boderic finally had spoken, Crixus wished that he would have remained silent. "I am who I am not because of some horrible monster in my past or because of what the War or my time in Mournhold has molded me into. I am who I am because I choose to be, because it is what I believe in my heart. If you think your little self-righteous bull-shite is going to give me a better opinion of you, well, then, you're dead wrong."

"Even so," Boderic returned. "I still give you their grace."

Crixus rolled his eyes, then returned to his tent. But Boderic's words stung his heart and remained with him long afterwards. Yet his words made his heart heavy and he turned instead to the gem hidden close to his breast. It seemed to throb with power, more so than any normal soul gem would. He remained thus enamored of it long into the night, taking it out periodically to gaze at its pale blue light, until sleep finally overcame him.

* * *

On the fifteenth day of Evening Star, Chancellor Buteo was now being summoned to the Walled Approach. No other action could have further annoyed him and broken his belief in the power of his might as the High Chancellor than being summoned by the Thalmor ambassador like a whipped dog. But he knew better than to defy the Dominion: the Emperor had defied them during the War, but had been humbled for his proud defiance. Lexerus Buteo was a politician, and as such it was his business to know the truth and alter it for the purpose of his own benefit. Many of the Placators were delusional, thinking that the Dominion were only seeking to correct an error in religious dogma and the Thalmor had in their designs friendship, diplomacy and friendly relations for the Empire. Buteo was not a Placator, and he knew the truth, the true truth: he could not help but know it, being in name only the most powerful man in the Empire.

And that truth was that the Empire had been broken. The Great War had broken the spirit of the Empire and its people. Now it remained as a husk, a shadow of its former glory, vainly grasping at straws in its futile effort to affirm its self-worth. This he knew every day: for the Dominion had all but won the War, though they had taken severe losses in doing so, and now the Thalmor walked through the streets of every city in the Empire as conquerors, enforcing the will of the Dominion as made plain through the White-Gold Concordant. Him also, High Chancellor Lexerus Buteo, second only to the Emperor, was at their beck and call.

When he arrived at the Thalmor Headquarters in the Walled Approach, Buteo was ushered into the courtyard. It was bare save for a few guards wielding torches, and Lady Arannelya there, waiting for him. Over the past few months, there had been many such meetings between them. But often it was that she played with him, arriving late or early at her own convenience, or standing him up altogether and voicing her displeasure - and her orders - through written messages. That she was here certainly held some kind of significance: whatever she had to say was too important to ignore.

"Good evening, Chancellor," she greeted. He returned the greeting. "I trust I'm not interrupting anything important with this visit?" She cared not if she did.

Servius Crixus had escaped the Imperial Bastion sometime last month, and Buteo and the Elder Council were in turmoil searching for him. Ondolemar had returned from Anvil with news that he had not returned for the Maro family. But that was little comfort. Now, however, Buteo's focus was stored up in preparation for the triumph.

"No, my lady," he replied, shaking his head.

"Good," she returned. "Because I have news from Bruma. Apparently some coup had been orchestrated by the people of Bruma and Servius Crixus was there to thwart the coup and punish its perpetrators."

Such a story Buteo had heard from Count Edvald, who had arrived at his personal suite in the Old City yesterday for the coming triumph. The coup had taken place earlier last month, over fifteen days ago. That Servius Crixus was involved was news to him, though.

"You knew where he was?" Buteo whispered. "And you waited until now to tell me about it?"

"I'm sorry," Lady Arannelya retorted. "I was under the belief that the Penitus Oculatus were competent enough to find him without my help. Is that not the case or are your personal guards incapable of catching one prisoner?" They were indeed 'his' guards. Both Buteo and Lady Arannelya knew the truth: a double of the Emperor remained in the White-Gold Tower, locked away from the rest of the world. The real Titus Mede II had been dead since the 30th of Frostfall last year.

"What do you want, woman?" Buteo snapped, growing frustrated at Lady Arannelya's condescending tone.

"Only the continuation of things as they are," she replied. "Therefore, it is in both of our interests that you remain as High Chancellor of the Elder Council. As it stands, though, this coup in Bruma, whether it is true or not, stands to threaten your influence. How will the other counts feel about your great power when a Legion commander, acting without orders, had to put down a coup that went on behind your back? They will certainly doubt your competence as the head of the Elder Council and begin to ask..._uncomfortable_ questions. Questions about the Emperor and why he has chosen such an incompetent old fool to head the Elder Council and, in all but word, run the Empire for him?"

"What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"I have fought against Crixus in battle, during the chaos in Hammerfell leading up to the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai," she answered. "He will not begrudge the opportunity to avenge himself upon you. Furthermore, I have it on very good authority that he has declared himself Emperor before his followers."

"What?"

"Indeed," Lady Arannelya replied. "And will you not be the first one to pay the price of his retribution should he take power?"

"Go on."

"Having already proven his martial skill during the War," said Lady Arannelya. "And his prowess in stopping uprisings with the rebellion and this little failed insurrection in Bruma, it is my belief that he will attempt to assassinate you during the triumph. If you would be ruled by me..." She chuckled, as if the thought of her counsel ruling him was overstepping her boundaries. "...do not go yourself personally to the triumph. Send a double in your stead and remain at the palace. Have a hundred of your best guards with you to protect you. Then, after he has been caught redhanded killing your double at the triumph, have him dragged back to the palace where he will die."

Buteo nodded. "But what if he tries to take the Ruby Throne while I am at the triumph, ignoring me altogether? Would it not be better to have the double be at the throne with the guards, while I remain at the triumph?"

"I am convinced that he will attack you at the triumph," Lady Arannelya defended. "His public execution of the perpetrators of the coup in Bruma have shown that Crixus is not afraid of displaying his power for all to see. A public assassination would give a more lasting example of his power than taking you out quietly." Lady Arannelya grinned knowingly. "No, my lord: your place is in the White-Gold Tower, defending what is rightfully yours."

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, Crixus and company had already left Fort Horunn and were on their way northward to Bruma yet again. As far as Garnag had told them, the camp which Eirik had made was set around a rune-stone about a mile south of Cloud Ruler Temple. According to the Orc, they were making good time and might even be there around morning of the seventeenth or the night of the sixteenth, if all went well. Therefore they left Fort Horunn as soon as they were all ready, their horses laden with the supplies that the legate had given them. Unfortunately, the snow had not abated and the roads were still thickly buried in hoary white. Visibility also was difficult, for the snows blew directly into their faces. Even with their hoods down and scarves over their faces, they could scarcely see a snow-drenched bluff or dark trees until they were almost upon them.

Nonetheless, they were in fact moving slowly northwest, step by step. Yet the snow continued to fall, until their horses were wading in snow up to their knees. It was at this point that their path began to slope steeply upwards. Here Crixus was brought to a halt: something was not right. As he stood there on Shadowmere, looking this way and that in the blinding blizzard, Viator called out from the rear.

"What is it now?" he demanded.

"We've come the wrong way," Crixus replied. "We've turned southwards at some point."

"The wrong way?" Viator asked. "How in Oblivion did you figure that out? There's so much snow, you can scarce see your hand before your face."

"We need to go uphill, towards Bruma," Crixus said. "About a few paces ago, I realized we've been going out of our way, going toward a hill that isn't part of the Jeralls. We're off the path.

"So what do we do?" Garnag asked.

"Petruvius, bring out the map," Crixus ordered. "And all of you, gather around." They brought their horses towards the dark figure of Crixus, who summoned a ball of candlelight which gave them some semblance of light. In this light they dismounted, leaving their horses in a tight circle as they gathered around Crixus' light and examined the map Petruvius removed.

"Garnag!" Crixus cried out. "Which is the road you were leading us on?"

"This one," the Orc said, gesturing to a road on the map that was not marked. "If we've veered off course, that means we're approaching Gnoll Mountain here." He pointed to a peak on the map that stood between their unmarked road and Bruma. "Getting over it would be dangerous enough on foot and with good weather. We'd do best to retrace our steps and return to the road."

"But which way is the road?" Petruvius asked, looking over his shoulder. "Every path looks the same in the snow. Gods, even the tracks of our horses are already buried in this blizzard. And without the sun, we won't know if we're going the right way or not."

"Give me the map," Crixus ordered. Petruvius handed him the map, and he looked at it again. "Alright, I think I know what to do. When we left Fort Horunn, which direction was the road taking us?"

"North," Garnag replied.

"And when we set out," Crixus continued. "Which direction was the snow falling from?"

"North-west, I think," Petruvius nodded.

"But surely the wind's shifted by now," Viator stated.

Crixus paused for a moment, removing the fur-lined glove from his hand and holding it up into the snow. After a few brief moments, he let down his hand and buried it into his glove. "Ever since the snows began," said Crixus. "They've been falling from the north. If we turn our faces towards the snowfall, we should find ourselves..." He pointed towards the unmarked road on the map. "...back on the road by and by."

"Where did you learn this?" asked Boderic.

"Did you think I spent all my time in the Legion crushing elf-skulls?" Crixus asked.

Though Crixus' plan was sound, the snows that fell north-to-south were heavy nonetheless, and their travel was much impeded. With the sun hidden behind a thick reek of clouds, they had little light for their journey and could not see any tree or rock until they were upon it and half-buried in snow disturbed from the leaves or sides thereof.

* * *

Hours on end they continued, traveling until at last weariness overcame their horses. With the exception of Shadowmere, the other horses might die in such conditions. Therefore they dismounted and led the horses on foot, until they too became weary beyond belief. But then, as if the goddess of the sky who had yet to appear before Crixus, blessed him with this one boon despite his blasphemy, the snows began to trickle down into gentle flakes. There was yet light, but that also was going fast as the day came to a close.

Wherefore it was agreed that they find a place to set up their tents and rest for the night. They were in a small clearing with tall pines thickly clad in snow surrounding the place like a high fence. Under these pines they decided to make their camp-site. Laboring with the only tools they had, being their hands, they dug out snow from underneath the trees and pilled them in short walls on either side. Then in the cleared places they pitched their tents, guarded from the winds by the short walls of snow. Under one tree they made the walls higher, and here they placed the horses, clad in their blankets to keep out the cold.

Once all was in readiness, they tried to get a fire started. But there was no dry wood to be found and the fagots that the legate had given them were dampened by the snow and would not ignite. Viator swore and kicked at the snow, while Crixus continued rummaging through their packs, looking to see if there was anything that could be burned. At last he found something near the bottom that made him laugh.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?" Viator groaned. "We've got no fire, and piss-poor protection from the snow. Might as well go to sleep naked in the snow."

"I wouldn't say that," Crixus grinned, removing a bottle from the pack. "It looks like the legate guessed what might happen and brought us some fine Colovian brandy to take off the edge of the cold."

Viator's scowl turned to a smile as he laughed. "Now you're talking."

In each of their packs was a bottle, which they removed and drank sparingly therefrom. Viator and Crixus, however, drank without restraint, until they were both leering and laughing at everything. Crixus, however, from a lifetime of drink, had a higher tolerance for spirits: by the time he had finished his bottle, Viator had already passed out by his tent. Crixus, fully inebriated, reached for Viator's half-empty bottle. As he was bringing it up to his lips, he paused and looked out through the branches towards the clearing. The wind had died down and he thought he heard the snow crunch underfoot just beyond the trees.

Taking up his Nightingale Blade, Crixus slowly stepped out into the snow, a black shadow in the gathering darkness. In his left hand he summoned a ball of candlelight, flooding the clearing in light that glistened off every crystalline snow-flake. In that light he saw a shape clad in gray on the other side of the clearing, moving towards him. His vision was blurry from his heavy drinking and he was unsteady on his feet, but Crixus had enough sense about him to be wary. With his sword raised and leveled at the newcomer, he spoke.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Speak, or why should I not run you through here and now?"

The figure slowly reached up and removed from off its head the hood. In the light, Crixus saw the face of his brother, gazing hopefully back at him.

"Servius," he said. "By all the gods, I had not expected to see you here."

"Don't...fucking..." slurred Crixus. "Call me...Servius, you...son of a b*tch."

"Don't say that about our mother, Servius," Venerius replied, repeating words spoken months ago.

"_My_ mother!" Crixus shouted. With that, he charged through the snow towards Venerius, sword in hand. Venerius had in his belt a mace, which he drew forth and held to fend off the blow. But because of the sword Crixus wielded, the blow struck like a hammer, almost knocking Venerius off his feet. He stumbled back, but still remained on his feet.

"Crixus, you're drunk," he said, still trying to reason with him. "You're not thinking clearly."

"I told you," Crixus replied. "That the next time I saw you, I'd fucking kill you."

"But we're brothers!" Venerius returned.

"Fuck you!" Crixus shouted, charging again at Venerius. He swung twice, missing once and striking the haft of Venerius' mace the second time.

"Crixus, listen to me," Venerius continued. "I've been hunting daedra and their servants with the Vigil of Stendarr. I've learned something you should hear..."

"I don't want to hear anything from you," Crixus replied.

"No, you _need_ to hear this!" Venerius continued, mustering all of his courage in the face of his angry brother. "You've been deceived, brother."

"Don't call me brother!"

"She's still using you," said Venerius. "The old witch. Sedris? You remember her, right? She tried to turn us against each other when we were young, now she's doing it again. You're playing right into her hands!"

"Lies!" Crixus shouted, lunging at his brother again, sword a-swinging. With each blow that struck the haft of Venerius' mace, the younger brother staggered back, getting weaker and weaker.

"Crixus," Venerius continued. "Please. There's no need for us to fight. We're blood, whether you say so or not. I...I'm sorry if I've caused you any pain. It was never my intention."

"Pain?" Crixus slurred. "You've caused more than enough pain, Venerius. You deserve to die for all the pain you've caused, all the lives you've selfishly stolen!"

"Don't talk like that," Venerius returned, clenching his jaw in anger.

"You ran away from home, remember?" Crixus asked. "To join the Legion, the Legion that you deserted from like a little b*tch. If you hadn't run away, I wouldn't have gone after you and father would still be alive."

"I didn't force you to run after me," Venerius replied, tears welling up in his eyes.

"No," Crixus returned, his own eyes filled with tears. "But _you_ forced your way into this world, tearing my mother with your worthless fucking head. You killed my mother, you worthless piece of shite!"

"That's a lie!" Venerius shouted. "She's put her words into your mouth, just like before."

"Maybe that b*tch was right about one thing," Crixus returned. "Because if it weren't for you, my mother would still be alive." He shouted. "You fucking ruined my life, you little b*tch! You're the reason mother and father are dead!"

"She was _my_ mother, too!" Venerius cried, tears bursting from his eyes as he charged at Crixus, swinging his mace at him. But Venerius was no match for Crixus in a duel, even if he had the element of surprise. Though he was drunk, Crixus could see the swinging mace and move to match it. Furthermore, Venerius was not himself: spurned to anger by his brother's words, he swung wildly. But Crixus still had the mastery over this fight.

"You know nothing," Crixus said. "You left the Legion like a fucking coward. You didn't do what I had to do in the Legion. I've crushed the skulls of elves, Khajiit and men who betrayed us to the Dominion: with my bare hands. I've done things I had to do in order to survive. And there's nothing you can say that won't make you end up as one of them!"

But Venerius was getting weaker. Each strike of Crixus' sword upon the haft of his mace weakened him, though his flesh was still unpierced. Yet he had a secret of his own, one for which he had sought out his brother.

"She's still using you," he repeated. "You need to let her go!"

"Don't fucking tell me what to do, you little b*tch!" shouted Crixus. "It won't save you."

"Crixus, please!"

But Crixus lunged at his brother, swinging his sword. Up went the mace, blocking the blow. Crixus' blow had dug deep into the wooden haft and when he tried to pull it out, the blade was stuck into the haft. For a moment it seemed as though they were stuck and either had to throw down their weapons or try again to wrench them apart. But Crixus had many weapons in his arsenal, and underhanded tactics were not beneath him. With his left hand, he reached onto his belt, pulled out a knife and stabbed Venerius through the chest. In his shock, Venerius gaped down at the knife-wound, then looked up at his brother, letting his mace fall from his hands.

"Why?" gasped Venerius.

"You robbed me of my life!" Crixus sobbed, feeling as wretched as when he slew the Emperor. "It's only fitting that I return the favor."

"It was Sedris!" Venerius muttered. "She tore us apart! She pitted us against each other and she's still doing it even now!"

"That b*tch is dead," Crixus returned, shaking his head. "I buried her with my own hands, I saw her body go into the earth. She's never coming back!"

"You're wrong," Venerius breathed. "She's...she's...she's alive."

Crixus' reserve began to break down before this revelation. He had tried to lie to himself, force himself not to believe what Divayth Fyr had told him. He had buried her in a ditch outside of Anvil when he came to check on the welfare of his father. There had been a clear body, one he had dragged out of his home and buried under earth and stone.

"You're lying!" Crixus shouted, refusing to accept what his brother told him as true. "She's dead! I saw her empty red eyes disappear with each shovel-full of earth, with each rock I piled upon her! She can't be alive!"

"But she is," Venerius replied. "I tried to tell you, before...but you wouldn't listen."

"How can she still be alive?" Crixus demanded. Into his mind flashed images of the Grey Spirit controlling forces to destroy him since he took his place as prefect of Mournhold. Was it possible that she was some undying spirit like that, able to persist beyond even mortal death?

"T...V..." gasped Venerius. "Ask her. She knows...where she's been hiding." At this, Venerius, growing weaker as blood flowed out from his wound between his skin and the knife, put his hands on his brother's shoulders.

"Brother..." he gasped. "I beg you, be free of her yoke! She need not control you anymore. I came free of her...you can too!"

"You lie!" Crixus retorted. "You can't possibly have forgiven her, not after all the horrible things she did to us!"

"Crixus, please," Venerius returned. "My time is almost spent. You have to let her go. As long as you allow her words to twist your mind and govern your actions...even if you should kill her a thousand times...you will never be free of her."

This only served to anger Crixus further. He twisted the knife in his brother's chest, then tore it out and stabbed him repeatedly in the stomach. Three times he stabbed him, then, taking him in his arms, he stabbed him over and over in the back. Venerius was now writhing in Crixus' arms, blood pouring from back and front. With a furious cry, Crixus pushed him back into the snow. But the face looking back at him was the face of his brother, the face that, like his own, bore the likeness of his father. In a few moments, that face would be as pale as the snow on the ground around him. And he would be the one to have killed his father's son, his brother, with his own bare hands, just as he had slain the Emperor.

But Crixus would not let his brother die peacefully. His words stung him to the core and he refused to let the face of his brother, the face that bore the likeness of his father, die so gracefully. If he was to die, he would go with no one seeing his face. Angrily he leaped upon the body of his brother and began to punch his face with his bare hands. No matter how much his hands hurt as he struck his brother's head, he did not relent. Over and over he struck, without regard to anyone or anything around him. The others, roused by his cries, rose up to see if he was being attacked, but came no farther when they saw the bloody mess around him. At least ten minutes went on, with the blood from Venerius' crushed skull covering the snow upon the clearing. At last he ceased, his hands shaking violently, everything covered in blood: his hands, his face, his clothes and the snow around him all stained with red. He noticed that they were all staring at him. Without a word, Crixus rose up, took his Nightingale Blade in hand, and walked back to his tent. There he laid himself down and sealed off the tent, saying nothing to anyone.

* * *

Late that evening on the other side of Gnoll Mountain, Eirik the Dragonborn was up late. When the news came to him about the massacre of Bruma, he was furious. Even Delphine and the Blades could not withstand against his wrath, after he had shouted the doors of Cloud Ruler Temple down. From there, he took command of Crixus' band of followers. Without the Orc cohort, the Sons of Skyrim outnumbered them and. Even the battle-mages posed no threat once Eirik had his strongest warriors take them captive. He then took them out of Cloud Ruler Temple and made camp within sight of the killing fields of Bruma. The Legions had already finished their grim task and had dispersed. There were no survivors beyond those Lysa had rescued.

He did not wish to kill them, as more than enough people had died of late. But he knew that something had to be done. This deed could not go unpunished. He hoped that, as Crixus wanted to become Emperor, he would come for them. Beyond that, however, he did not know how to continue. He knew that the Empire needed to be reformed, that it needed to be changed, and that united the Empire and the Nords stood a better chance of fighting the Dominion. But this incident seemed to show that Servius Crixus wanted nothing more than to divide the Empire even further by demonizing the Nords. Not since the chaotic Interregnum at the end of the Civil War had he been racked with such indecision.

Therefore he had not used his Voice to clear the snows: he was a Nord and he would weather this storm as all of his people had for centuries. Every moment he could spare was spent outside of his camp, calling forth every warrior in Sovngarde that Shor permitted to come. But he wanted one in particular, one warrior above all the others. And so he prayed and he shouted the same three words over and over again: _Hun Kaal Zoor_. All that day many came, but not the one he sought. Eirik now sat down on a stump near the edge of the snow-clad camp. He had already spoken to Anhilde the Knight, Ulfric and Galmar Stone-fist: each of them said more or less the same thing.

"Unless there is battle for us, we cannot help you."

Again he prayed, begging that the Divines would bring him the advice he needed. As soon as the last one left, Eirik summoned up his strength, gazed at the snow, and shouted once again:

"_Hun...Kaal Zoor!_"

There was a blue light, and then from it there strode an older man in steel armor with a short sword on his belt. Eirik smiled as he recognized the face that he had seen long ago in the Hall of Shor.

"Father!" he exclaimed.

"My son," Bjorn Thoresson returned. "Things have changed since last we spoke. You've become stronger, a better man, walking the path that I would have chosen. I am very proud of you."

Eirik smiled ruefully. "It's for this very reason that I've sought you out, over all the heroes of Sovngarde that Shor could send to my aid." He scoffed sarcastically. "Gods, I don't even think Lydia could be of much use in this matter."

"Why, my son?" asked old Bjorn. "You've become the man I always hoped you would be."

"I am torn between serving the Empire," Eirik returned. "And serving my people. The Empire that I serve is not the Empire that you loyally followed into the War. They have slaughtered innocent people; _our_ people. Yet I fear that, if we do not fight together, there will be neither an Empire nor a Skyrim to come home to."

The old man lowered his gaze, then turned to Eirik.

"You are a grown man, my son," he said. "You are fully capable of deciding for yourself what is best for your people. I am no more for this world. Do not think that the things of your world hold any meaning for me: they do not. It is for you to decide. And when you make that decision, know this, my son: I will always be proud of you and I will always love you."

Eirik sighed, but not from weariness. Hearing his father say those words was enough to galvanize him into action. Now he sighed in relief, as if a great burden was lifted from off his shoulders.

"Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

Morning finally arose in the clearing on the eastern side of the Gnoll Mountain. While there was still a heavily overcast sky, the snows had subsided and there was greater clarity of sight. The horses were still alive and nothing was missing from their camp. While Petruvius, Garnag and Viator began taking everything down and packing them onto their horses, Boderic prayed and Crixus sat in the mouth of his tent, blood still staining his face. At last, using some snow from the ground, he rubbed it onto his warm face, which quickly melted, after which he wiped the blood off his face then joined the others in their work.

The tents were now packed and the horses were ready, and after eating only a meager breakfast, the four of them mounted up. With light on their side, they left the clearing and soon found the road again. Suddenly well-aimed arrows came whizzing through the trees, striking Shadowmere and the other horses out from under the travelers.

"Defend yourselves!" Crixus cried out, drawing out his sword.

Boderic threw his helmet on and took out his mace as he rose from the wreck of his horse. From out of the trees came several vagabonds in fur cloaks and heavy clothing, all of them armed to the teeth. With a cry, they charged at the group, intent on killing them, so it seemed. Garnag was the first into the fray, throwing himself heedlessly among them, tearing them apart with his bare hands and seizing other bandits to act as shields against the weapons of their fellows. Behind him came Boderic and Petruvius, sword and mace, as they fought them back. Crixus drew his Nightingale Bow, eying the trees for another ambush, while Viator's sword had frozen into its scabbard and could not be removed.

The battle did not go well for them, though. Garnag was soon surrounded by an army of bandits, all of whom were attempting to restrain him but to no avail. Petruvius and Viator were seized from behind and dragged forward before Crixus and forced onto their knees, while a large man clad in animal skins crashed through the trees and knocked Boderic down. Crixus aimed his bow at the large man, when he noticed the man behind him. A young man of average height for a Colovian, with dark, curly hair, a wicked fire smoldering in his eyes and only four fingers on his right hand: the gloves he wore had the little finger removed entirely.

"Restrain that beast, if you please!" Benjin Surilie ordered his men currently fighting with Garnag. "But don't kill it outright." He then turned to Crixus, the cheerful grin on his face turning to an angry scowl.

"At fucking last!" he exclaimed, with more anger in his voice than happiness or surprise. "You know, you really are a hard man to track down, Servius Crixus. When I heard that you'd been taken by the Penitus Oculatus as a traitor, I thought to meself: 'That's too good a death for the likes of you. You deserve to suffer.' Imagine my surprise when, after prying off a few fingers of the right people, me and the boys found out that you escaped and came up here to lovely little Bruma." A shout arose from the group trying to subdue Garnag.

"Do hurry up, won't you?" Benjin asked, without looking over at them: so focused he was on his prey to suffer. He turned to Crixus and walked over to him, the large man behind him with a mean expression on his face.

"Now, then," Benjin began, then looked about, counting on his right hand before bursting forth into laughter. "Oh, I'm sorry! Your friend isn't here to save you this time, is he?" He held up his right hand, the one missing the little finger, and waved away Crixus' bow. "So you might as well put that down. You're not going to get a chance to use it. I have eyes in the forest and they'll pin you as soon as you reach for an arrow or draw back your bow."

"Don't you fucking want to kill me?" Crixus returned.

"Eventually," Benjin shrugged. "But first, I'm gonna make you suffer...real, real badly." Crixus looked at the trees and saw motion therein. With a sigh, he lowered his bow. As soon as the bow was down, four vagabonds leaped out of the trees and seized Crixus by the arms, forcing him down to his knees.

"The one who needs saving is you, boy," Boderic interjected. "Go home to your parents, submit yourself to the mercy of the Nine and you will be forgiven."

Benjin chuckled. "Oh, goodness, another god-thumping idiot with prayer on his lips." He snapped his fingers and the large man turned to him. "Crusher, take off his helmet." With this, the large man strode towards Boderic, legs apart and arms hanging at his side like some kind of monster ready to attack. As he came near to where the other bandits were holding him, he seized the helmet and unceremoniously ripped it off Boderic's head, breaking the leather straps that bound it about his chin.

"Let me tell you something, ginge," Benjin said, turning to Boderic. "I'm not sure what kind of skooma you've been eating or drinking or smoking, or whatever the fuck it is those cats are doing to it these days. But we Colovians are the most open-minded of all the races of Tamriel. And do you know why that is?" He knelt down, coming within an inch of Boderic's face. Crixus saw that the young knight was resolute, unmoving and unperturbed by Benjin's wild eyes.

"It's because," he whispered, loud enough for Crixus to hear. "We don't give two shites about gods or worship. There ain't no fairies in the sky judging our actions as being good or bad. We can do whatever the fuck we want, without any consequences! No rules! Absolute freedom!"

"You're wrong, boy," Boderic retorted. "The Nine are very real, and if you continue as you are now, then you will face only their judgment, poured upon your head without mercy."

"Oh, keep it in the temple, ginge!" mocked Benjin. He then rose up and took a step back, snapping his fingers towards Crusher again. "Put his helmet back on his head. Make sure it stays on." Then, reducing himself to the same level of bestial stupidity as his dim-witted muscle, Benjin knocked his two fists together in front of Crusher's eyes.

The large man took the helmet and placed it back onto Boderic's head as it had been before: then, with one hand on each side of the kettle-like great helm, Crusher squeezed the helm like a flimsy tin can. There was a sudden muffled cry, a loud, sickening crunch, then the helmet caved inwards, spewing blood from the visor that splattered to the ground. Boderic's body fell to the snow, blood still pouring from the visor of his crushed helmet, but he did not move: he would never move again.

"You fucking piece of shite!" Viator retorted, bursting suddenly into hot wrath. "He never harmed a good soul in his entire life!"

"Oh, the mouth on this one!" Benjin chuckled, the wolfish grin still masking his face. He then turned to Viator and grimaced. "And fucking ugly to boot! Crusher, fix this little man's face for me, won't you?" Viator struggled against the thugs holding him down as the massive man walked towards him, a scowl on his face. Suddenly Crusher punched Viator in the face, sending him reeling back with the sheer force of the blow. Again he struck, and a third time, drawing blood from Viator's nose and eye. Over and over he struck, until Viator's right eye had swollen shut and he was swaying on his knees, half-way between life and death.

"Stop!" Crixus shouted. "It's me you want! Leave him alone."

"Why?" demanded Benjin. "I like seeing people suffer. And after all, I enjoy seeing you suffer most of all."

"Then try that on me," Crixus retorted. "Or maybe you're afraid that I won't scream for you unless you hurt my followers first. That you won't be strong enough to break me."

"Oh," Benjin laughed. "A glutton for punishment, I see." He then snapped his fingers and ordered Crusher to stop punching Viator. He then cantered over to Crixus, grinning wickedly. He was now up even with Crixus, sword drawn and glaring down at him, when he heard a deep voice loudly bellow "Sithis!" from behind.

"How fucking hard is it to subdue one Orc?" Benjin complained, looking over his shoulder to his subordinates.

But they had not subdued Garnag in the least. Benjin's proclivity for torturing his victims for personal pleasure rather than killing them outright had caused him to order the Fighters Guild mercenaries and sell-swords he had hired to hunt down Crixus to capture and detain rather than kill. He was after sport, not quick, pleasure-less kills. Therefore they tried to bind Garnag rather than kill him. But Garnag had no such stipulations. Easily as blood-thirsty and demented as Benjin, though more aggressive and less cruel, he never took prisoners. Each one that tried to restrain him ended up dead as he worked himself up into the blood-furious frenzy of his people, the fierce Orsimer. As the blood of each victim stained his face, his rage grew greater and greater. Now he was nigh unstoppable. With a roar, invoking Sithis' name, he pushed aside the bandits like flies and charged towards Benjin. Within a moment, he had tackled him down and had his right arm held tightly in his own hands. Suddenly overtaken by this massive Orc, Benjin was crying and screaming with terror at being mastered.

"Crusher!" he demanded, reaching out his left hand to the large Imperial. "Don't just sit there, you fool! Help me!"

The giant man strode over to his master, took his hand in both of his massive, shovel-sized hands, and pulled as hard as he could. But Crusher was not very bright: if Crixus knew him as well as Benjin did, even he would have considered Thromgar Iron-head to be, by comparison, quite intelligent and eloquent. Crusher pulled, but the hold that Garnag had on Benjin's body was just enough to counter the massive man's strength. With steam billowing out of his nostrils like a dragon and a roar on his lips, Crusher pulled again. He came staggering back, holding in his hands Crusher's left arm as far as the shoulder, dripping with blood. Benjin gave out a loud, agonizing scream that fell into bawling, pathetic weeping: like Idolaf Battle-Born, Benjin was nothing more than a coward. Crusher, seeing that he had done wrong, and still fearing some possible reprimand from his master, threw away the arm and ran off into the snow-clad trees.

But the others hadn't been idle. Viator's head was swimming, but his left eye was still good. As the guards turned their attention towards the Orc, Viator butted one of his captors in the stomach with his head, then seized his short-sword and thrust it backwards into his stomach. Then, staggering back onto his feet, he drew out his own sword just in time to fend off an axe-blade from the other captor. Petruvius, meanwhile, had his wits about him and struck truer. As Garnag charged at Benjin, he pretended to faint. His captor tried to rouse him, but that was his undoing. With his legs, he kicked the thug's own legs out from under him and rolled aside as the other stabbed down at him with a spear. Crixus, meanwhile, had an even more ingenious plan. He saw Garnag charge at Benjin take his eyes off him, and in that moment he called upon Nocturnal to hide him. Before their astonished eyes, the guards and mercenaries watched their prisoner vanish into thin air while he lay in their arms. In their shock, trying to find where he had gone, they let him go. Now invisible, Crixus crept behind them, drew out his Nightingale Blade, and drove it through the back of the nearest one. A bloody melee followed, with everyone hacking and slashing and hacking or tearing off limbs. Garnag, meanwhile, was keeping Benjin's convulsing form secure as the blood-fury began to burn out in his veins: he wanted to kill him, but he would wait on the word of the Listener.

At least a dozen died before the rest realized that they were better off on their own: they had already been paid half and half was better than being dead and having nothing. Therefore they dropped their weapons and ran as fast as they could. Three people were left standing: Crixus with his bow bent and an arrow fitted upon it, Petruvius nursing a bruise that had resulted from a head-butt from a mercenary with an iron cap and Viator, still staggering about. The right side of his face was still ugly shades of red and purple, puffy and covered in blood.

"Don't worry about me," he chuckled when Crixus asked him if he was alright. "I've had worse in bar-fights in fucking Kvatch."

Crixus then turned to Benjin, who was still blubbering in Garnag's arms.

"Not so tough now, are you, b*tch?" Crixus asked, looking down at the young man. "You're a disgrace to your people."

Benjin could not speak, for he was still in shock over having his arm ripped off.

"How shall this one die, Crixus?" Garnag asked.

"Not like this," Crixus shook his head. "Oh, no. He spent his life causing pain and suffering to everyone he encountered. It's only fitting that we return the favor. Break his other arm, then hold his legs down."

Garnag twisted the right arm, leaving it to hang limp as he held Benjin down by his legs. With one arm removed and the other useless, he could scarce defend himself. Crixus then aimed his arrow at Benjin's hand and let the arrow loose, piercing his arm.

"There you go," Crixus said, staring down at the young man. "You kill one of my knights, so I leave you like this. With only one arm, and that..." He drew out a knife from his belt. "...fucking useless." He then knelt down and, with the knife, cut off Benjin's right thumb. With that, he held the lad's face still and shoved the bleeding thumb into his mouth.

"Now," Crixus grinned. "Even if you survive long enough to find help, you'll be maimed and helpless for the rest of your miserable fucking life. And if anyone asks you how you became so disfigured, you can say that you slew one of the Kings Men, the personal knights of the Emperor himself. And you live now at the mercy of said Emperor."

Rising up, he kicked Benjin in the stomach, then walked over to where Viator was kneeling down beside Boderic's body. He had noticed a subtle change come over Viator since the young man had died. To his surprise, he had actually spoken good of him in retort to what Benjin had done. It seemed so unlike him, especially since he was of the belief that Viator hated Boderic and his faith as much as he himself had done.

"Such a fucking waste," Viator somberly said, gazing down at the body of Boderic, helmet crumpled and fixed permanently onto his head. "A man like him should have died for something nobler, not this."

Crixus wanted to say something in retort, to mock Boderic's faith and devotion. But then it came to his mind that Boderic Vesnia was the last of the Knights of the Nine. Now that ancient order that had been resurrected by his ancestor, the Hero of Kvatch, defeated Umaril the Unfeathered, and survived the Great War in this young man was lying at his feet, his head crushed. His respect for Colovian antiquity alone held his tongue from blasphemy.

"Yes," Crixus finally uttered. "An ignoble death for a noble knight." He then cleaned the Nightingale Blade and returned it to its sheath, then turned to Garnag and Petruvius. At his order, the Orc let Benjin lie on the cold, snow-covered ground, rendered harmless to them.

"We should bury him," he said, looking down at Boderic's body. "He deserves that."

"We haven't the tools to dig a ditch for him to be buried in," Garnag stated. "And even if we did, it would take too long. We must reach the camp soon."

"And we already have a big fucking delay on our hands," Crixus replied. "Those bastards killed our horses, and Shadowmere can't carry all of us: there's too many of us to fit on one horse, magical or no. We might as well give him the proper rites."

Crixus led the others to a spot underneath a tree on the left-hand side of the road. The trouble came with the actual process of hole-digging. They had no shovels and much of the ground and snow near the ground was frozen hard. They them fell to using their swords to dig a shallow pit down to the ground. Into this they placed Boderic and piled the snow on top of him.

"It won't last," Crixus said. "But we can't afford to carry his body with us all the way to Bruma for a proper burial."

With this done, Crixus sent the others to salvage all that they could carry from the horses. He then remained by the grave, at which he carved into the tree the name of Boderic Vesnia and a diamond below it. Then he too left and joined the others. The four of them now hoisted all that they could carry, leaving the rest on the side of the road with the slain bandits, and set their feet to the snow-covered road and departed. Crixus took one last look back at the unmarked grave beneath the tree, wondering if his misfortune was now catching up with him again. Maybe it was the Grey Spirit.

* * *

Two days after the attack by Benjin's thugs and the group of four now came upon the desolation where the Imperial Legion camp had once been. The blizzard had driven away the smoke and covered the blood with snow. The mass graves were hidden now and the women had been taken back into the city, where they would be forced to raise their new children under pain of death. Crixus then lifted his eyes from the town and towards the lines of smoke a little to the north. Thither they put forth all of their strength to reach, for Garnag had told him that the lines of smoke came from Eirik's camp. They walked out confidently, for they had taken their tents with them throughout the journey and had slept therein each night on the road. All were rested and refreshed: even though the swelling hadn't gone down on Viator's face and his right eye was still useless, he had command of his wits as keenly as ever.

As they went on, the little column of smoke was replaced with black dots on the horizon. Then from black dots the shapes of tents became apparent. The closer they got, they soon saw that a small company of men appeared at the front of the camp to meet them. Now Crixus could plainly see Eirik standing there in his dragon-bone armor, the great-sword of the Skaal at his side, sticking in the ground, and an angry grimace upon his face. Crixus continued walking towards Eirik, a smile on his face in return. There was little hope of Eirik having no knowledge of what had happened, especially since Garnag had told him that he knew. But he might as well smile, if only to annoy the Nord with his indifference.

"Eirik, my dear old fr..." Crixus began.

But he had no chance to finish. Eirik punched him in the face without a word. So fierce was the blow and so hard the dragon-bone gauntlet he wore that Crixus fell to the ground, dazed but still conscious. Garnag roared and charged towards Eirik, but with three words, Eirik sent Garnag flying back across the field and into the thick drifts of snow: _Fus Ro Dah_. But once Petruvius heard the first word, he shouted to Viator to move, and they both leaped aside and were spared the blast of unrelenting force. Once Garnag was tossed away, Crixus staggered back to his feet.

"What the fuck was that for?" Crixus demanded.

"You know damn well why," Eirik replied, anger in his voice as he glared down at Crixus. "Don't bother denying it, as I've seen what you did to the people of Bruma with my own eyes."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "Well, then, why didn't you do something about it, then? You're so in love with your mongrel race, why didn't y..." Again, Eirik punched Crixus in the face.

"Why?" Eirik demanded. "What are you trying to prove by killing my people, except that Ulfric was right?"

"How _dare_ you!" Crixus returned. "Those are the words of a traitor! You have a fucking obligation, to serve the Empire. Need I remind you of what happened because of the war? That Thalmor bastard you slew in Solitude, all those dead hanging from the walls: without the Empire, more of that would be happening in your precious fucking country. Only by working together can the Empire be saved."

"Working together?" Eirik asked. "You don't want to work together! Ever since I've come to this land at your orders, my men and I have been maligned, insulted, threatened and left to hang like slaves."

"Cry me a fucking river," Crixus groaned.

"I'm not fucking stupid!" Eirik retorted. "You only invited the Sons of Skyrim here so you could lord your power over us, so you could kill my people and keep me on a leash, incapable of protecting them! You want to divide the Empire, not unite it."

"Shut up, shut the fuck up!" Crixus shouted. "You know nothing, you white cunt!"

"Well, then, why don't you tell me, huh?" Eirik demanded. "If you know so much, why don't you tell me?"

"I'm not telling you shite," Crixus returned.

"Afraid of the truth?" Eirik asked. "Or maybe you've been speaking lies all your life, you don't even know what truth is anymore, do you?"

"The truth?" Crixus scoffed. "You don't want to know the fucking truth."

"I wanna know!" Eirik demanded.

"You do, huh?"

"Yes, I fucking want to know!" Eirik shouted.

"Alright, I'll tell you!" Crixus returned. "It's because your kind are fucking barbarians. You take what isn't yours and insist that everyone kiss your arse and let you do whatever the fuck you want! I know your kind all too well. I fought alongside snow-backs like Ulfric and your father in the Great War. They were fucking animals, mindless, death-loving savages, every one of them! I saw them laughing and singing and making light of death, welcoming it, fucking happy about dying! Your kind are not right! You deserve to be wiped off the face of Nirn, every last fucking one of you!"

Eirik shook his head. "I can't believe I ever believed you'd changed. Now you insult the memory of my father, who was a loyal soldier of the Imperial Legion. He never disobeyed his orders! And you dishonor one of your own!"

"Fuck him," Crixus retorted. Again Eirik punched him in the face, striking him down. Behind Garnag had returned and was charging back, and only the intervention of the largest of the Sons of Skyrim kept him from bringing battle to Eirik.

"I didn't want to believe what Jordis told me," Eirik said. "Now I see that she was right. Our friendship is over. I'm done with you and your Empire. Take the Ruby Throne yourself, if you can." Eirik turned around.

"Fucking coward!" Crixus shouted. "Traitor! You're an oath-breaker and a liar, just like Hjalti-fucking-Talos and Ulfric Storm-cunt! You swore me an oath!" At this Eirik came to a halt. Slowly he turned around. Crixus grinned, happy to be controlling this strong, powerful and headstrong Nord.

"Yes, curb!" Crixus replied, adding insult to injury. "Heel like the whipped b*tch you are. You swore me an oath, remember? To obey and serve me in all things, and that if you broke this oath, your life would be forfeit. Or maybe you'll do like Ulfric and conveniently forget the Decree of Monument when it's fucking convenient to you, huh? Do you deny that you swore this oath to me?"

"I deny nothing," Eirik stated. "It is true that I swore an oath under these conditions. That if I failed to carry out this oath, my life would be forfeit." Eirik strode towards his sword, placing his right hand upon the pommel.

"Then it is forfeit," he returned, anger in his eyes. "Come take it, if you can."

"Are you fucking challenging me?" Crixus asked. Eirik raised his eyebrows. At this, Crixus laughed. "Of fucking course! The Nordic answer to everything: kill anything in your path! I won't debase myself by fighting you!" In truth, however, Crixus was more than a little concerned. The Blades were far away and this was not Riften: there would be no places in this open plain to evade from Eirik's sword.

"Not a good way to start off becoming Emperor, eh?" Eirik asked, imparted for a moment with Jhunal's wisdom. "None will ever fear and obey you if you don't fulfill your threats."

"Don't you fucking turn that around on me!" Crixus retorted. "Only _I_ can do that!"

"I challenge your claim to my life," Eirik clarified. "Do you accept my challenge or break the oath you made?"

"Name your terms, arse-hole," Crixus replied. "I'm not stepping blindly into something you're setting up. It's likely a trick or something...if you people were clever enough to dissemble."

"A battle to the death," Eirik stated. "If I win, I am free of your oath and may depart unbound. But if you win, you'll have my life, just like we swore."

"Just like that?" asked Crixus.

"Just like that."

Crixus chuckled, his mind drifting to the poison Ingun Black-Briar had given him. Maven Black-Briar would be pleased and surprised to hear that her daughter's vocation, which she did not approve of, brought about the end of her sworn enemy.

"I want two more terms," Crixus stated. "First, I can select for myself a champion to fight on my behalf. Second, no dragons. That means no Voice, no summoning dragons..." He grinned. "...and no dragon-bone armor."

"As you wish."

"Then I accept your terms," Crixus replied. "Prepare yourself to die and meet no gods beyond."

Crixus turned around to Viator, Petruvius and Garnag. A quick glance over his shoulder saw Eirik removing his dragon-bone armor. He saw several of his men, the Sons of Skyrim, offer him armor to wear, but he shook his head. Crixus grinned: this would be easier than he thought.

"Petruvius," Crixus said, turning to his servant. "Fight him for me."

"Not this time, sir," Petruvius shook his head. "I've already fought him once and only your intervention saved me."

"Oh, right," Crixus grimaced, remembering how narrowly Petruvius had escaped death. He then turned to the others. "What about you?"

"Let me fight him," Viator stated. "I've been itching to test me mettle against one of these Nords. Now's the chance to see if they're as good fighters as the stories say."

"Garnag?" Crixus asked.

"I will kill him for lord Sithis," the Orc replied.

"Fuck Sithis!" Viator retorted. "Crixus, let me fight this long-shanked Nord for you. He looks strong enough to give a good fight at the very least."

"If you want him dead," Garnag stated. "Then choose me."

Crixus looked back over his shoulder and saw a circle forming, ringed on all sides by the Sons of Skyrim. Eirik stood there now, clad in brown trousers and boots, with his great-sword in his hands but no other armor upon his body. Crixus chuckled, then cried out: "Do you have a fucking death-wish? Why not put some armor on?"

"I see that Orc berserker of yours," Eirik stated, gesturing with the sword to Garnag. "I won't deprive my men of their armor, not when you have an Orc to start killing my men at your command should I win."

Crixus had actually not planned to do that, confident as he was in the surety of his victory. But, if all else failed, he was certainly considering that option.

"Well?" both Garnag and Viator asked.

"Alright, I've made my decision," Crixus said, turning back to them. "Viator, get your armor on and take up your sword. You're fighting that white bastard."

"Him?" Garnag asked. "But he's maimed! He can't see out of his right eye. Both of my eyes are clear: send me, and I'll give you his head, just as I tore off that little man's arm!"

"No!" Crixus whispered. "No, I need you for something else. Besides, look at yourself, Garnag." Aside from his fur traveling clothes, Garnag was shirtless. "You're not exactly prepared for a fight. Viator has armor: that sword of Eirik's won't be able to do much against true Colovian plate armor. There must be no opportunity for that white cunt to beat me...again."

Five minutes later and Viator came walking slowly out from the supply stash near the tents of Crixus' followers. In one hand was his sword, which he held with two hands, in the other was a shield and he was clad from head-to-toe in Colovian steel body armor. Crixus smiled broadly: here at last all would see the weakness of a Nord berserker against a true Colovian knight. Nevertheless, he wanted to be secure in his victory against Eirik. Therefore he knelt down, wrapping his cloak around him to hide his hands as he removed a knife from his belt and poured Ingun's poison over the blade. By the time Viator had returned to Crixus, Petruvius and Garnag, Crixus had finished the poisoning and presented the dagger to Viator clandestinely.

"A scratch from this," Crixus stated. "And he's dead."

"I don't need this," Viator retorted. "I'll beat him with my own strength."

"Don't be a fool!" Crixus returned. "You _must_ win. That Nord shite cannot be allowed to escape, no matter what! Take the knife, use it if you must."

Crixus pressed the dagger towards Viator, who rolled his eyes and stowed it away in the over-large sheath on his belt. Then, clad as he was in steel armor and with a sword in his hand, he strode out to meet Eirik. Crixus was smiling like Benjin Surilie at this set-up. He deemed Eirik to be a lesser man mostly because of his race, but also because of the Voice: now, without his armor, Crixus was very happy. All would see the weakness of the fabled Nord hero. No one would question who was the Dragonborn now.

"Are you that fucking eager to die?" Viator laughed, speaking to Eirik.

"If I die today," Eirik replied. "It will be the will of the gods, not yours."

"Fuck the gods!" Viator retorted. "If I had to rely on them for victory, I'd be fucking dead by now."

Eirik strode slowly towards Viator, sword held forth in both his hands while Viator mocked him from behind his shield. Suddenly Eirik lifted up his voice and cried in a voice that shook the very stones beneath his feet: "_Sovngarde saraan!_" With that, he swung his great-sword towards Viator, hoping to overpower him with his strength as he had done with many foes before. Viator held up his shield to fend off the blow, and went staggering back, as if struck by a minotaur or ogre: the blow was enough to knock him off his feet, but he, strong man he was, barely managed to survive. No sooner had Viator recovered when Eirik came up again, swinging his sword for another overwhelming blow. Viator held up his shield, bracing himself against the awesome strength of he who wielded it. It was enough, but just barely enough. He could hear the wood of his shield creaking with the blow. Something was about to give.

The Nord stepped back, swinging his sword over his head three times before bringing it down to split Viator in half. But the hedge knight was quick and stepped aside, avoiding the blow. He now took his chance to take Eirik down: with that great-sword, Eirik had reach to defend him and nothing else, as Viator believed. He now charged at Eirik, sword out and coming down upon his neck for a killing blow. But, in his time in Skyrim after the Siege of Solitude, Eirik had not been idle. Old Angrim of the Sons of Skyrim, who wielded a great battle-axe even at the age of sixty, taught him how to use more than just the blade of his weapon in battle. Eirik heard the clank of Viator's armor as he ran, or rather strode slowly, towards him, sword raised. With one hand upon the hilt and the other upon the blade, Eirik brought his sword up to block the blow. With a mighty shove, he pushed Viator back, his right hand still clinging onto the blade of his sword.

Viator struck again, and once more Eirik held off the blow with both hands on his sword. Following up, he pushed the greater guard of his sword, with its sharp and pointed end, into Viator's neck. Normally this would be a killing blow on a lightly armored opponent, but Viator had chain mail beneath his plate armor that stayed the blow. Nonetheless, the point was able to pierce the skin through the small gaps in the chains. The damage came when, upon piercing the sky, Viator pulled back instinctively, widening the cut. He was now bleeding from the nape of his neck.

Anger boiled up in him and he swung wildly at Eirik. But the Nord used his own sword to block the blows one after another until, with a loud clang, the Colovian steel short-sword shattered upon the the Nordic steel great-sword of the Skaal. Viator backed up, raising his shield as Eirik swung his sword in retort: there was a great crack and Viator stumbled to the ground, his shield broken in half across the top. The Sons of Skyrim cheered on the skill of their leader.

"Up with you," Eirik finally said. "We're not finished here."

Viator staggered onto his knees, then looked back at Crixus, who had been watching the fight silently from the crowds. Crixus said nothing but gave him a gentle nod.

"Maybe," Eirik breathed. "You should have shown the gods more respect. Perhaps they would have honored you, rather than leaving you here at my mercy."

"Fuck you!" Viator retorted. "And fuck your mercy! If you want to kill me, go ahead. Don't be so fucking smug about it."

Eirik took his great-sword and drove it blade first into the ground.

"Unlike you," Eirik replied. "I won't fight you unfairly. You have no weapon, so we shall fight on with no weapons."

But Viator was not unarmed. Onto his feet he leaped, drawing out the knife Crixus had given him. The two now faced each other, Eirik's arms held out in anticipation of the blow as Viator jabbed the knife forward threateningly. Crixus' eyes feasted on every moment of what was to happen next. Without armor, Eirik was vulnerable even to as little as a scratch. With a yell, Viator lunged with the knife. Eirik evaded by stepping aside, then seized Viator's arm with the knife and struck him in the face with his elbow, sending him reeling back. But Viator kept a tight grip on the knife. He swung it at Eirik's unprotected stomach three times, and each time Eirik managed to step aside or back, missing the knife by as little as a hair's breadth at one point.

If Crixus had fought instead, he might have been able to throw the knife into Eirik's exposed chest, having been taught knife-throwing during his time in Mournhold. Viator, on the other hand, was not so skilled with knives as Crixus. But what he knew was that this Nord, clearly his equal in height and more than his match in strength, had only one weakness that was clear and apparent: he had no armor. To him, it was too much of a risk to try to throw that knife at him, for if he missed, as he guessed that he would, he would now be defenseless against one who had broken his shield and sword. He judged therefore, in what little time he had while keeping this Nord on his toes, that it would be better to keep a poisoned knife in his hands and thereby have a guaranteed shot of cutting him and surviving, than to throw it away and be disarmed. He was determined to make blade connect with body. Therefore he yelled and brandished the knife above his head, then, as fast as he could in this heavy armor, charged at Eirik. The Nord seized Viator's hands, keeping the knife from going into his face. But Viator was expecting this and Eirik had fallen for his plan.

A swift kick to the groin sent Eirik doubled over in pain, then Viator followed up by kicking him in the stomach, sending him sprawling backwards to the ground and his hands away from the knife. Eirik had scarced recovered, getting onto one knee, when Viator came again with the knife, throwing all of his strength into making the knife connect with flesh. But he, like Crixus, estimated that Eirik was, like the people of Cyrodiil believed all Nords to be, dim-witted and ignorant. He judged therefore that, like others, he had not put any more thought into fighting than overcoming his enemy with brute strength. But this was not the case with Eirik. Angrim the Old had showed him, during the weeks and months after the Siege of Solitude, the chinks in his fighting style and how a smaller opponent might use weight and momentum to overcome him. Even as Viator was coming down with his blade, Eirik reached up with both hands, grabbed hold of Viator's hands and the pommel of the knife, and shoved it back towards him. There was a loud, bellowing cry as the knife pierced Viator in between the plates upon his left leg.

Viator stumbled back, limping as the pain coursed through his leg like liquid fire. With one last cry, he wrenched the sword from his leg and threw it at Eirik: caution be damned now. Eirik ducked his head to the side and the knife went sailing beside him, burying itself in the snow. Viator now struggled to master himself: he was still bleeding from the nape of his neck, and now there was poison running through his veins. His vision was blurry and all he could see was a large, pinkish blur standing in a field of white. With another cry, Viator pushed himself to his fullest extent, charging towards Eirik and raining punch after punch upon him, using his steel gauntlets to punctuate each blow. Some Eirik blocked, but he took many others, and was bruised and cut upon his chest and his left temple.

But with each strike, Viator felt himself growing weaker and weaker. His strength was ebbing faster every time he exerted himself. He gasped, feeling the cold wind upon his sweat-drenched face. He swung again, but this time his blow went wide and he missed Eirik altogether. Then the Nord came to finish off his opponent: for finished he truly was. A swift punch struck Viator in left side of his face. The blow was enough to incapacitate teen-aged Bosmer thieves, rookie foot-pads of the Thieves Guild that had never been struck before in their lives. Had Viator not been poisoned, he might have taken the blow and kept on coming: but now it was enough. He staggered and fell backwards into the snow.

All around Eirik the Sons of Skyrim cheered for him as he walked back to where he had left his armor and wiped clean the sweat and blood off his body with his shirt. Viator, meanwhile, had turned himself over onto his hands and knees and crawled towards Crixus, who was now shouting after Eirik.

"Get back here, oath-breaker!" he shouted. "You're not done yet! Get back here and finish the fight!"

"Crixus..." Viator breathed, reaching out to him. Crixus looked down and sympathy was in his eyes. None had he met who was as close to his own spirit as Viator Matius of Kvatch.

"Go on," Crixus urged. "You can do this! He's unarmored! You can kill him!"

"I'm spent..." gasped Viator, turning around and falling again into the snow on his back. "I felt his strength. It was...more than I could take." Crixus now knelt down, cradling Viator's head on his knees. Despite the pain in his neck, Viator turned his head over to Crixus, looking him with his left eye. "If you hadn't...given me that...fucking poisoned blade..."

"I had to make sure you won!" Crixus insisted. "And you have to keep fighting! I won't let him beat me!"

"It's...over," Viator sighed ruefully. "Time to see...if the gods...are real or not." A tear welled up in his left eye. "If they are...I'm...fucked."

"Don't talk like that," Crixus returned. It hurt him deep down inside to see that Viator, defiant in his godlessness, just like him, would, also just like him, quail with fear and trembling before the prospect of death. Crixus always held Viator to be better than that, to be the one who would, when all others quailed, mock the gods until his dying breath. Now he saw that he was no better than himself.

"Crixus..." Viator breathed. "If this is it...then I should go...at least...doing something honest. Remember that beast-fucker...Larth?" Crixus nodded. Viator shook his head gently. "He didn't sell you out...to the Oculatus...I did."

Crixus' mouth hung ajar for a moment. He had taken the personal betrayal of his secret to the Penitus Oculatus very seriously, going so far as to hold a public trial and execution before all of his followers. He was determined to show them that he was not to be fucked with in any small or great matter. But now to hear that it had been false?

"They came to us..." Viator continued. "At the winery...in Skingrad. They told us that you were a traitor...that you were planning something. They promised..." He closed his left eye as the pain swept over him, then gasped and opened it again. "...ugh, promised to forgive me...if I spied on you for them. And so I did. An...and an innocent man...died because of my selfish pride. Forgive me...forgive..."

But Viator's eye glazed over and he said no more. Crixus was stunned by yet again another death, and one that hit him harder than the death of his own brother. That one had been at his own hands and to ease his own suffering. Now, instead of easing his own pain, this death brought about even more pain. One he loved and respected was now gone, revealing with his last breath how he had used him to carry out his vendetta against Larth and upset all of Crixus' plans. It seemed that the spectre of death, that haunted all of his followers since, as Crixus believed, the Grey Spirit began to haunt him, had returned. But there was another, more pressing, reason that Viator's death brought pain to Crixus.

It meant that Eirik had won the duel.

* * *

**(AN: This ended up being the longest chapter in this entire story, if not in any of my _Elder Scrolls_ stories. Mostly because i didn't want to cut it up and so much happens in it: by the end, i felt as though i could have gone on more and that still wouldn't be enough.)**

**(For those of you who keep asking if Eirik is going to become Emperor, let me tell you the same thing i said to those who wanted him to be a lazy-ass and summon dragons to solve all his problems: IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN! That's the only spoiler i'm going to give. Also, if you were wondering how Boderic could have been killed so easily, just remember that he was not wearing Crusader's Armor during this chapter. As far as the duel at the end goes, i had Eirik expand his sword-fighting repertoire due to my recent viewing of sword-fighting videos by _YouTube_ user Skallagrim [who, based on his accent, is Scandinavian].)**

**(I ended up chopping off a bit at the end, just because this chapter has been eight days in the making and you all are doubtless getting angsty. Don't worry, that end will appear at the beginning of the next chapter, where even bigger things will happen.)**


	49. The Witch's Last Web

**(AN: I hope this chapter lives up to everything i have built up for it since _The Dragon of the South_. As you may have guessed, this is Crixus' big emotional climax, the mirroring of his reunion with Venerius, his last audience with the Emperor and the antithesis to Eirik meeting Bjorn in Sovngarde. It also delves into some rather personal and highly emotional subjects about parenting and abuse.)**

**(If you haven't guessed from the major hints i've been dropping throughout the past two chapters, then i'll just tell you: Sedris Ulver is going to appear in this chapter in the flesh and not in a flashback. Her concept as an evil stepmother who's a witch who ruins Crixus' youth came from my brother's original draft of Crixus' story, but has been fleshed out by me. Originally he had in mind for her to be an eternally young, otherworldly creature, similar to Tilda Swinton from _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ [more about parallels to this series and the _Chronicles of Narnia_ later]. I, on the other hand, went for something more like a traditional witch, a ruined and terrible creature that vainly clings to its youth, refusing to let go: embracing evil and relishing in it. So my version is based on every character played by Jessica Lange in that most awful television series _American Horror Story_. Even the name has overtones of evil: Sedris from the antagonist of the _Star Wars_ EU comic _Dark Empire_ and Ulver after Fenrisulver, the swamp wolf of Norse mythology that devours Odin the All-Father.)**

**(Also, because i cut the last chapter short, i had to tack on the resolution of the fight and the revelation that was begun with Venerius' death.)**

* * *

**The Witch's Last Web**

But, as with the incident with the poisoned porridge in the kitchens of Solitude, Crixus was not willing to concede defeat. He was now angry at Eirik for stabbing Viator with the poisoned knife to defend himself, and he wanted now to make him heel to his power. Gently he let Viator down into the snow, then stood up.

"Stop!" Crixus shouted towards Eirik. "Come back here, you white cunt! We're not done here!"

"Is he not dead?" Eirik asked, looking towards Viator.

"He's dead," Crixus grimly returned.

"Then we're done," Eirik replied.

"No!" Crixus retorted, hoping once again to get off on a technicality. "No, see, we agreed to a fight to the death, and whoever killed the other would win. But you didn't kill Sir Viator, you only wounded him."

"Didn't you just say he's dead?" Eirik asked, turning to Crixus. "Now you're saying he's wounded. Can't you make up your own damn mind, or are you so deluded that you've forgotten which lie to believe this time?"

"Oh, he's dead," Crixus returned, striding out into the circle. "But not at your hands. Therefore you haven't won, and you're still under my oath!"

"Not at my hand?" Eirik asked, taking a step towards Crixus. "Didn't you see the fight?"

"I saw the fight," Crixus replied. "But I know of a surety that Sir Viator did not die at your hands. You could not have killed him..." He was about to add, 'not with the blows you made', but something else stopped him for a moment. He looked at each of the Sons of Skyrim, then he saw, behind them, his followers, looking on as well. They were not in chains as he had suspected. Nevertheless, his attention was on Eirik: he was out for blood after Viator's death, and wanted to bind him so badly, he spoke these words instead: "...not without my help."

"Your help?" Eirik asked, taking another step towards Crixus.

"Yes, my help," Crixus returned. "That knife he wielded was poisoned. I gave him the poison to put on the blade. It was meant for you, but..."

"But I stabbed him in the leg with the knife," Eirik concluded. "I turned your weapons of deceit against you and slew your champion. I still won!"

"Using my poison!" Crixus retorted. "Intended to be used on you! Therefore you didn't win!"

"Fuck, Crixus!" Eirik exclaimed. "Why are you so determined to beat me? Gods, what have you really lost if I'm here or not? You hate my people, and after today I certainly have no love for you: why not be rid of us? We'll go back to Skyrim and leave you to your own devices. I'm sure you won't mourn our absence."

"No, I need you here!" Crixus demanded. "I am the Emperor and you are my subjects! You will obey me..."

"Or what?" Eirik asked. "You're not the Emperor yet, just an angry general." With that, he turned around and prepared to leave the circle.

"I know where you live!" Crixus shouted, pointing at Eirik. "And you know what forces I command beyond these knights. I can have them pay your family a little visit, if you refuse to obey me."

A deafening silence fell in that clearing. All eyes of the Sons of Skyrim turned towards Eirik. Slowly he turned around, a furious light in his eyes. With a loud cry, he seized his great-sword and came charging at Crixus.

"Garnag, now!" Crixus shouted.

The Orc leaped up and charged at Eirik. The Sons of Skyrim took out their weapons and shouted in eagerness to battle. Eirik swung his sword towards Garnag, who seized it with both hands and tried to wrench it from Eirik's hands. But Eirik was able to keep the sword in his hands, but only just. Seeing that he was outnumbered, Crixus ran over to Eirik's side.

"Is it really worth it?" he asked, trying to bluff Eirik. "You know I have the same power as you do. If you want to fight, fewer of you Sons will be returning to Skyrim. Fuck, I can even force you to obey my command, then sit back and watch as you tear apart your people with your own bare hands. And I'll fucking do it too, if you fight me."

If he could have burned holes in Crixus' face with his gaze, Eirik would have done so. For the moment, he could not shout at the moment without harming himself.

"If you threaten my family again," Eirik replied. "I will kill you. I don't care if you're the Emperor or not."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," Eirik repeated.

"Now stand your thugs down," Crixus ordered. "And prepare to move out. This group should have been in Cheydinhal two weeks ago, were it not for your impetuousness."

"Call off this Orc," Eirik grunted. "And I'll order them to stand down."

Crixus sighed. "Let him go, Garnag. He'll cooperate." The Orc let Eirik go, then stepped back, an angry look on his face to match Eirik's.

"You've wasted enough time as it is," Crixus said to Eirik. "Before the year is out, we will march on the Imperial City and take the Ruby Throne. Do this, and I'll forgive your attempt to imprison my people. Then your oath will be fulfilled and you'll be free to go on your way."

Eirik's frown did not abate. "Very well," he stated. "I'll go with you and fight at your side. But the rest of my men are free to return to their homes."

"I can't allow that," Crixus returned. "Either all of you serve, or all of you die."

"I can't force them to act against their wishes," Eirik said. "Maybe if you had been less aggressive towards us, they would have a higher opinion of you."

"Fuck you," Crixus retorted. "I'm not kissing your arse or any Nord arse just to make you fight for me. That you have no desire to fight for the Empire shows why we don't need your kind."

Before Eirik could respond, Crixus walked away towards his followers while Eirik called the Sons of Skyrim to gather around to speak with them. Petruvius and Garnag, meanwhile, were left to drag Viator's body away and find a place to bury it. But Crixus had questions he needed answered, and he wasn't willing to wait a moment longer. He made his way to his followers and saw all that remained of his motley crue: Estalenya, Antilius, Casmar and the Maro children. Arcadia was not here, having returned to Chorrol after she believed she had killed him. Drogon had not been seen in a long time, not since Cloud Ruler Temple. He was amazed at how small their group had become since Skingrad.

"Get your things together," Crixus told them. "Then make your way east, towards Cheydinhal." Quietly they made their way to their tents to retrieve their things. It was then that Crixus saw the one he was looking for, hiding behind them throughout the fight for fear of the Nords. The one who bore the initials he had seen before in letters regarding the new Mages Guild.

Tiraa Vilenis.

"Crixus!" she exclaimed. "There you are! I've been trying to find you ever since you left, but a darkness has overwhelmed my scrying crystal and I couldn't see you. I have great news: I've finished the charter. We have an official document, restoring the Mages Guild to its ancient position." Crixus did not answer.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Sedris Ulver," Crixus spoke. "Does that name ring a bell to you?"

"Well, yes," Tiraa returned. "She's my contact in Cheydinhal."

"What?" Crixus gasped.

"Crixus, what's wrong?" she asked again. "You look like..." But immediately Crixus seized her by the throat.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"I don't know for sure," Tiraa gasped. "She always moves about. We never sent letters or messages to each other: all our communication has been through scrying."

"Liar!" Crixus retorted. "You know where she is, don't you?" He tightened his grip on her throat. "I don't care if you're a Dunmer or not: I will kill you myself if you keep her from me! Where is she?"

"Cheydinhal county!" gasped Tiraa. "But not in the city! She said..." She groaned. "...let me go and I'll tell you!"

Crixus threw her onto the snowy ground, releasing her from his grip.

"What did she say?" Crixus demanded.

"Our recent communications have been infrequent lately," Tiraa coughed. "She said that the people she was staying with didn't approve of her magicka and she had to maintain a low profile."

"Where did she say she was, elf?" Crixus asked.

"I don't remember," Tiraa returned. "By the shore of some lake, I think. Arrius, maybe."

Crixus paused, thinking back to his time in Cheydinhal. He had passed Lake Arrius before, even coming within sight of that place. He wondered now if she had been there when he passed by, and if he, refusing to be ruled by Raynor Indarys, had gone inside. Would he have seen her then and known of her existence sooner? Would it have changed anything?

"Thank you," he finally muttered. "Now get yourself ready. We leave at first light."

As Tiraa rose to her feet, Crixus wandered towards the little group of the Sons of Skyrim. Eirik was still talking among them, and Crixus came in the middle of this, hearing what he said to his people. They did not seem very happy with what was said and voiced their disapproval loudly.

"You have seen what happened," Eirik said, after which they quieted one by one. "My family is in danger if I don't serve him. Therefore I will remain behind. The rest of you are free to return to your homes. We're not in Skyrim, fighting for her right to exist freely and without molestation of tyranny. You owe me nothing."

There was silence throughout the twenty something people gathered here.

"We came to fight," Eirik continued. "And we have not had that opportunity. Go home, now, and shore up what defenses we have against enemies at home. I would never ask you to go through this."

"Eirik!" a young man spoke up. "With respect, we can't follow these orders."

"They're not orders, Bjorn," Eirik said to the young man. "You have no more to give in this vain quest. Return to your homes, while you may."

"You're wrong, Eirik," Bjorn stated. "When you said that we don't owe you nothing. We owe you everything. You saved us from death in Windhelm, you had the balls to stand up to the Empire and the Dominion even after the Empire robbed us of victory. And, by Shor, you're the Dragonborn! We owe you everything."

"But..."

"Did you really think," Bjorn the young asked. "That we'd leave you surrounded by these back-stabbing milk-drinkers? We all go home together, or none of us goes home." He then turned to the others. "What do you say?"

"Aye!" the Sons of Skyrim shouted with one voice. Crixus turned away, a sour expression on his face.

"Damn you, Eirik," he grumbled as he walked towards the tents of his followers. "I'm the respectable, loyal and skilled Colovian, yet you're the one whom people follow and respect? Fuck, they _love_ you!"

* * *

After this, he went back to the tents and deposited everything he had with him that he had carried from Petruvius' horse. From there he went to where Petruvius and Garnag had buried Viator. He spent a long time standing by the little mound, saying nothing to any of them. At last, he called the small group together for their last overall orders. After a little while, he had them before him: Petruvius, Garnag, Casmar, Alcedonia Maro, Quintus Maro, Estalenya, Tiraa Vilenis and Antilius Luco. Nine people left of a group that once numbered fourteen.

"We come to it at last," he told them. "Before this year is out, we shall be in the Imperial City itself and with our power, each one of you will be legitimized as knights." He spoke as if talking to a great crowd, but only five were here to whom this message was meant. "You will be first of the Kings Men and be richly rewarded for your long service." They murmured their approval: but the reception was lukewarm at best, compared to how the Sons of Skyrim volunteered to remain.

"It is a long journey from here to Cheydinhal," Crixus stated. "And we must make haste; already precious time has been lost, and doubtless the Penitus Oculatus haven't been idle while we were. We leave at first light tomorrow morning: Petruvius, I want you to write a letter to Delphine at Cloud Ruler Temple. Tell her to bring the Blades to the Roxey Inn north of Lake Rumare." Petruvius nodded, then Crixus turned to the others. "And for the rest of you, go first to Cheydinhal, care of the Newland Hall corner-club. There seek out one Raynor Indarys: if you find him, tell him that Crixus sent you to recruit as many men as possible and send them to the Roxey Inn. Men skilled in arms and who will ask few questions. Can I count on you to do this?"

"I will do it, Your Majesty," Estalenya replied.

"You have ten days," Crixus said to them all. "Five days from here to Cheydinhal, and another five to prepare and make for the Roxey Inn. At the end of ten days, we will take the Ruby Throne and I will be Emperor." He nodded to them, smiling as best he could, though there was much grief in his heart for the loss of Viator. "Get some sleep. You'll need your strength when we leave tomorrow."

But Crixus could not sleep. All that night he remained awake, his mind swimming with images of what he would do when he found Sedris Ulver alive again. Part of him hoped that Venerius had been lying to disuade him during the fight: it would certainly be what he would have done. But the fact that Tiraa did not deny it and even told him about her made him doubt that both of them could be lying. Though House Hlaalu had an ill reputation in Morrowind even to this day, in Cyrodiil they were not considered back-stabbing, corpse-defiling blood-traitors who would sell their own family out for a bit of Imperial coin. And the Shield of Hlaalu, though unknown by the overall populace, did not have as bad a name in Cyrodiil as all that.

Hours passed and the snows began to fall again. Crixus examined his gear over and over, thinking on what he would take with him tomorrow. His original plan had been to bring the Sons of Skyrim to Cyrodiil so that they would be under his thumb and unable to interfere in what he had planned for Bruma. Afterwards, he had intended to send them all in front when he took the Imperial Palace while he remained in the shadows, hooded and cloaked. If he succeeded, the public would not know his identity until he was formally announced as Emperor (after he had been able to rearrange the Elder Council in order to make them suit his ends). If he failed, he hoped that the Sons of Skyrim would take the fall and he could escape while they were slaughtered wholesale. If he was captured, he had to wear different clothes so as to not implicate the Legion: even in his treachery, his thoughts were to the honor of the Legion.

He chose his Nightingale gear, then suited himself up and left everything else lying in his tent. There would be no need for the letters where he went and Petruvius would take them with him once he left. Using a piece of parchment and some ink, Crixus drew a quick note and left it on the bed-roll. With knives, bow and sword, Crixus placed the cowl upon his face and threw the hood down over his head, then walked out of his tent into the dark and cold like a living shadow. With one hand upon the Shadowmere amulet, he summoned the black horse and mounted up once again.

"It's just you and me, then," Crixus smiled. "You know the way: take me back to Cheydinhal...and to vengeance."

Off rode the horse and rider into the darkness, leaving before the break of day for the long ride back to Cheydinhal.

* * *

For five days Crixus rode through knee deep snow throughout the Highlands. Try as he might to stay awake and travel at night, he found that this was impossible for him to do. Wherefore he found whatever place he could find that was relatively safe from the creatures of the wild and the wind and snow, and slept there. Every night he dreamed the same dream: that he was on a ship sailing through the mist-clad sea filled with ghosts. Then appeared the pillar of light, towards which the ship was steadily drifting. Whatever he sought lay beyond that pillar of light. But then the dreams ended, and he returned to the waking world, reminding himself that all he wanted was to see Sedris Ulver dead and gone for good. Then he would take his food, summon Shadowmere and depart once again on his journey.

The twenty-fourth day of Evening Star, the day before the celebration of Saturalia in Wayrest and Talosfest in Skyrim. Crixus was now once again on the edge of the ruin of Cheydinhal. The devastation seemed as grim as ever, shrouded though it was by snow. Black stumps poked their heads out of the snow and there was still smoke on the horizon. On his horse, Crixus stood outside the house on the edge of Lake Arrius, the Liore Residence. The smell of death was heavy in the air that wafted from that house. Here Crixus dismounted from Shadowmere, removed his Nightingale Bow and fitted an arrow into the string: this he held in his left hand, steadying the arrow, while he walked up to the door. Rather than knocking, he reached for the knob to open the door. To his surprise, it was not locked. The door made no sound as it opened. Crixus' heart was beating faster than it had ever beaten before: so close he was to uncovering the truth.

Inside the Liore Residence, he saw several bodies lying upon the floor. They were all dead and rotting. At least three bodies belonged to children, locked with hands clenched around their necks as if they had choked each other. In the little sitting room, a small fire smoldered upon the coals of the hearth and a chair was pulled up there-at, with its back turned towards the door. Inside that chair sat an old woman with wavy white hair and a golden goblet in her left hand from which she drank: she bore herself as though she were proud of the carnage around her, that it was something worthy of revelry or at least amusement. After a sip, the hand extended lazily back out from the chair and Crixus saw a blue-gray hand holding it. Quietly he moved his right hand to the bowstring, pulling the bow back to his temple. The bow creaked as it was drawn.

"Put the bow down, son," the old woman spoke. It was Sedris' voice: he knew her voice better than anyone else. She spoke with a Nibenese accent, not the drawl of mainland Dunmer or the rasp of Vvardenfell-dwellers. "We both know you haven't got the stones to shoot me."

"You don't know shite, b*tch," Crixus muttered fearfully, memories entering back into his mind upon hearing that voice. "And I am not your son!"

"Hello to you as well, Servius," said the Dunmer, taking another sip from her goblet. Slowly she rose from her chair and turned around to face Crixus.

Her hair fell down to her shoulders in wide, silvery waves, but it was wiry and messy. Apart from her red eyes and pronounced brow, her eyes were thin and squint, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed into a scowl of utter loathing. She may have had an otherworldly beauty in the time of the fourth Pelagius Septim, but now, almost three hundred years later, there was nothing remaining of any beauty in that face. But, a witch of the Illusion spell as she was, she refused to accept that she was losing her beauty; for it was the only thing she had used to get what she wanted outside of her Illusion skills. It was her identity, and now it was slipping away.

"Please put down that bow," Sedris replied. "Is that any way to treat your mother?"

"Shut up!" Crixus shouted. "You're not my mother, you never were!"

"And who was your mother, hmm?" she asked. "A weak Colovian noblewoman who didn't think you and your brother were worth living for?"

"Don't you fucking say that!" Crixus choked, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Oh, please," Sedris rolled her eyes as she took another sip, then rose from her seat, turned around and looked at Crixus. "You couldn't kill me, even if you wanted to. We both know that. Don't you at least have some questions to ask me?" Her thin eyes narrowed even more as she glared at Crixus. "Maybe you'd like to know how I'm still alive."

Crixus relaxed the tension on the bow, but did not let it fall too far down from his target.

"I buried you," he stated.

"No," Sedris shook her head gently, then placed the goblet down upon the seat of her chair before turning back to Crixus. "No, you buried a young Dunmer woman. What her name was, if she had family or friends who miss her..." She grinned wickedly. "...that's hardly important. I found her on the streets of Anvil and slipped her poison. Enough to kill her, but that kept her body warm and more or less free from decay. I then dressed her in my clothes and cast an Illusion spell on her to make your father believe it was me. The night before the Dominion attacked, I put a spell on him, causing him to fall into a violent lust with this young woman." She grinned again. "I don't think your _n'wah_ gods would welcome him into Aetherius, now that your father's fucked a corpse."

"You b*tch!" Crixus muttered, raising the bow again.

"Is that any way to talk to your mother?" she asked.

"You are not my mother!" Crixus repeated.

"Am I not?" she returned. "I raised you and your brother from sniveling, weeping little brats who couldn't keep your hands off your cocks into the men you are today." With the hand that held the goblet, she pointed at Crixus. "And you were my finest pupil."

"You taught me nothing!"

"Oh, but I did," she replied. "You fought me in your arrogance, and I enjoyed it. I reveled in your rebellion: you ate up everything I told you, lapping it up like a nix-hound eating its own shit. But you I could never break, not like your father. I admired you for that."

"Nothing you can say will save you," Crixus shook his head.

"You're resisting me even now," she spoke. With that, the image straightened up and, to Crixus' disgust, the old Dunmer witch turned into the likeness of Claudia Maro. When she spoke, it was with the same voice that he had heared after his night of love-making with the Jarl of Solitude.

"Would your resistance cease if I looked like this?" she asked. "Would you call me mother then, I wonder?"

"Fuck you!" Crixus whispered, pulling the bow back. But to his further shock and disgust, he saw the likeness of his mother turn into another one. As if this were not bad enough, the pale body reached up and altered her robe, showing off an ample bosom underneath the robe.

"What if I assumed a form more...godly?" she asked, the voice now that which had haunted Crixus' mind since his early days in the Legion.

"You're a fucking piece of work!" Crixus exclaimed. "Trying to seduce me!"

"Well, can you blame me?" the voice of Sedris asked from the lips of his goddess. She wrapped her robe about her again and the shrunken, shriveled olf Dunmer witch returned. "I use the skills I have at my disposal. It was enough to seduce your father, after all. And the Liore family." She looked down at the bodies around them.

"What did you do to them?" Crixus asked.

"Nothing personally," she replied with a shrug. "I simply showed them the truth."

"And what truth was that?" asked Crixus.

"I came to their house several months ago," Sedris began. "And put an Illusion spell on the husband. Oh, he came after me like a swarm of cliff-racers! Then I came to his wife in tears and trembling, telling her how her husband had taken me against my will. I turned them against each other, then, day by day, week by week, fomented the anger between them. Wife turned against husband, brother against brother, sister against sister, servants against servants. They all killed each other, but the wife killed the husband in the most beautiful way: took an axe to his head, painted the upper room in his blood. Brutal, but effective: the world is better off with fewer of you filthy _n'wahs_."

"Give me one good reason," Crixus demanded. "I fucking beg you."

"Not to kill me?" she chuckled. "Oh, I don't need to give you any reasons. You still have unanswered questions. Very well, ask what you will."

Crixus hesitated. He had her in his sights, the bow bent and arrow upon the string. Just one shot and she would be out of his life for good. Instead, he found his hands relaxing on the bow-string and lowering the bow.

"What about Venerius?" Crixus asked. "What part did he have in your scheme?"

"Setting him against you was certainly fun," Sedris replied. "I knew the hate you bore for him in your heart, hatred because you felt that he killed your mother by being born. I fed that hatred in you, then told him that you could not be trusted. Then, oh, about the time you were still in the North, he ran into me here, following a lead from my former confidant."

"Tiraa Vilenis?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I gave her a scrying crystal, through which we have been communicating for years. Long before I ran into your father."

"How did you know," Crixus asked. "About..."

"About your goddess?" Sedris laughed. "Such a pathetic little child, to worship a whore, to think that she could ever love you." Crixus drew the bow back and shot at her. To his dismay, the arrow passed harmlessly above her head and stuck to the far wall behind her.

"You could never harm me," she said, slowly shaking her head. "Not even if you tried. Your selfish desires are stronger than your hatred for me."

"What the fuck do you know about me?" Crixus asked, his left hand still holding the empty bow.

"I've been watching over you, Servius," she replied. "Ever since you were eleven."

Crixus swallowed, his hand suddenly releasing its grip on the bow as it fell to the floor. His mind went back to when he was eleven.

"Why?" he demanded. "You hated me, my father and my brother! What makes you think I would believe these lies?"

"Oh, yes, I hated you all," she returned. "I hated you because you were men. I hated you because, merely by being born, you oppress women, be they your own kind or Dunmer. But you, Servius, the most Padomaic human I've ever met, resisting me and the mercy of your weak _n'wah_ gods: you I could respect."

"I don't fucking believe you," Crixus dismissed.

"Well, that's your own choice," Sedris stated. "As it is your own choice to kill me now..." Her eyes squinted at him in disgust. "Like how you killed your cousin, Titus Mede, the people of Karthwasten and Bruma. But I know in your heart that, of all the souls you've killed, though you hate me more than any white Nord _n'wah_, you could never bring yourself to kill me, nor will you ever."

"Do you want to tempt me?" Crixus threatened.

"When you were eleven," she continued, regarding not his threat. "On that very day, your father intervened to save you from my wrath. I always found that my power over him waned whenever you were in danger or being threatened. No intelligent person would willingly afford themselves such a weakness."

"It wasn't weakness," Crixus sobbed, hearing his father insulted before his ears but, true to her words, not willing to kill the one doing the insulting.

"I was forced into a corner," she returned. "I had to direct my energies to assuaging his wrath, released during my attempt to chastise you. He made me swear that, even if I had no love for you, I would at least pretend to care about you." She chuckled. "I did something even better. I decided to bestow upon you a blessing of Clavicus Vile: that way I could always hold this over your father's head, saying that I had loved you in order to be free of his oath forever."

Crixus' eyes swelled as he heard these words. His mind went back to his eleventh year, playing hide-and-seek in the cellar in their home and hearing chanting down in the darkness.

"Yes," she purred. "You were there. You saw me praying to the lord of deals, striking one over you." She took a step closer to Crixus. "Haven't you ever wondered why, at the age when most of your mongrel race are already weak and feeble, with one foot in the grave, your strength and your youth have never failed you?"

"It was on account of good, Colovian breeding," Crixus replied.

"Oh, please," she shook her head. "Don't lie to me, not now. Not after all these years when you've known the truth. Ever year you got older and never showed a sign of weakness, never had a single gray hair or aching of your bones. You knew that there was some bewitchment upon you. Your brother knew when you met again in Skingrad."

"How do I know that you," Crixus asked. "The mother of lies, are not now trying to lie to me to save your life?"

"What is truth?" she stalled. "Most of what you read in the books is lies and conjecture mixed with rumors and speculation. Contradiction is the only constant in this world. The old books and the ancient knowledge are worthless in a world that is ever-changing. But you know this, don't you? And whether I am a liar or no it matters not. What matters is you."

"And what about me?" Crixus asked.

"You, who constantly and persistently lie to yourself," she continued. "Must now choose which lie to put your faith in. You may try to kill me if that will appease your fragile ego, but you will have to live with the consequences of that. Or you can let me live, and for the rest of your life go on from here, knowing that the old witch is still out there somewhere, haunting your dreams, destroying more 'innocent' lives."

"What consequences could be worse than letting you live?" Crixus demanded.

"Oh, you have no idea," Sedris chuckled ruefully. "The lord of deals is a crafty one, hiding stipulations within his deals, never revealing them until utterly inconvenient. And when I placed you under my enchantment, the daedric prince stole my power from me and turned the joke around on me."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Crixus asked, who was starting to get annoyed with all of these questions.

"As I watched you from my scrying crystal," she continued. "I hoped and prayed to the Old Tribunal, the true living gods of my people, that you would die. That some calamity would befall you in payment for what you did to me through all those years. In time, however, Clavicus Vile appeared before me again and told me the horrifying truth: the only truth worth knowing. The one that will destroy you, Servius."

"And what's that?"

"The hidden stipulation of the deal I struck with him when you were eleven," she said. "You would be given everlasting youth and strength, far beyond the measure of such things for your race. But only insomuch that we both remained alive." She chuckled. "Whatever gods there may be are surely laughing at us right now. Both of us hating each other, and both of us unable to be rid of the other." She took another step closer to Crixus.

"For if you kill me," she concluded. "Then your strength will wane and you will wither and grow old like any other human. And if I killed you, my own power would diminish and I would be no better than the Falmer of Skyrim."

"You're lying," Crixus shook his head.

"Believe what you will," she replied. "As you seem to be so bent on convincing yourself to believe any lie that suits your fragile ego. But I know you: I know that you are too weak to carry out your threats. Like the rest of your race, you fear death and the withering of the years. Your self-love is stronger than any hatred you bear for me."

To the surprise of all, including himself, Crixus laughed.

"Oh, you old Dunmer b*tch," he chuckled, taking a step closer to her. "That's a good story. Perhaps, in another life, it might have been true. Whether it's true or not here, however, is immaterial: because..." He took another step closer to her. Now they stood almost eye-to-eye with each other, being no more than two inches of difference between their two heights. "...you've overlooked one small detail in your plan."

"Oh, really?" she returned, dismissively. "And what's that?"

"Recently I met someone who told me," Crixus continued. "That I should live my life for no one else but me. And I agree with her: nothing should govern my destiny but my own heart. And you never knew what was inside my heart."

"Does it matter?" Sedris asked. "Hearts are fickle and love is a comforting fantasy created by scholars and poets to reason the stupid choices people make."

"You're wrong again, b*tch," Crixus shook his head. "If there's one thing that has never changed in my heart, it's this..." He took a step closer to Sedris. Now they stood almost nose to nose with each other, gazing into each other's eyes. Then, suddenly, Crixus removed one of his knives and thrust it into Sedris' heart. Her red eyes exploded in shock, surprise and horror as she looked down at the wound, already blood seeping through her dark-colored robes.

"_Nothing_ is stronger than my hatred for you!" Crixus muttered, his hands quivering as they held the knife and twisted it in deeper.

Her narrow red eyes swelled to twice their normal size as she gazed down at her wound, then back up at Crixus in disbelief. Very roughly he ripped the knife from her body, with blood now flowing out in copious amounts from the wound. The Dunmer staggered back, then fell to her knees.

"B-But..." she stammered. "But I'm a woman! Women can't die!"

"Everyone dies," Crixus said to her.

"Women don't die," Sedris replied, shaking her head in disbelief and doubt.

"Everyone, even gods!" Crixus seethed. With that, he drove his knife into her throat and pulled it swiftly to the side. The lower part of Sedris' neck was covered in blood as she fell backwards onto the floor, lying now among the Liore Family.

Crixus gazed down at the body, willing his eyes to remain open. He was determined to have this image above all others branded into mind memory. Every time he thought of her, he would be seeing this broken body, eyes gaping wide in horror. But the longer he stared down at the body, the more his mind began to overwhelm him. Sometimes the head would blink, or an ear would twitch, or her entire head would turn around and look at him.

"No," he shook his head. "No, you're dead. You're dead. You're _finally_ dead! And there's no way you're squirming out of this one, b*tch."

But his mind would not let him rest. Instead he saw only the horrific image of that body rising up and taunting him. Even though sent beyond the grave, Crixus allowed his stepmother to rule him. Then something in him snapped: if he could not replace the image in his head of her living face with that of her dead face, then he would annihilate her face entirely. Angrily he seized the goblet and, with its base, began smashing her face as hard as he could, screaming back at the deaf, unfeeling corpse all the lies that she had told him over the years.

"Where are your gods now, you little shite?" he roared. "Let them save you! Your mother didn't care enough to live for you and your fucking brother! She never really loved you! Fuck! Your father is weak! He is my slave! There's nothing beyond this life! Watch out, b*tch, or the white _n'wah_ Nords will take you! Who's the master _now_, b*tch? Who's the fucking master now?"

He beat her head in with the goblet until it broke, then he used his fists even as he had desecrated the body of his brother. When he heard bones crunching under fist, it only made him strike harder and faster. Blood spewed all over the floor and into his face, his nose, his mouth and his eyes: but he did not relent. He struck and he smote, until it seemed that his energy was seeping out of his body with each blow. But still his hatred burned hotter and he continued pounding. When at last there was nothing left to strike but blood-stained wood, he stopped. His hands were covered in blood and shaking violently beyond his control. What had once been the head of Sedris Ulver now they remained nothing but white hair stained pink, shards of broken skull, meat and brains that had been squashed beyond recognition, and blood. So much blood. Blood on the floor, blood on the chair, blood his hands, blood on his face, blood on her clothes, blood on his clothes: blood just about everywhere.

But even in all of that blood, he could still hear her voice, still see vividly the images of the torment of long years.

* * *

**(AN: There you go. Despite my brother's protests to the contrary, i can't help but believe that, since Sedris was the only woman in Crixus' life, he learned from her more than he would like to admit. I tried to portray that in this chapter, where we see many of his less-than-admirable features portrayed in her. Fun fact [or perhaps disturbing]: t****his chapter was also inspired slightly by the TV series _Daredevil_ and the _Acid Bath_ song "Scream of the Butterfly.")**

**(I know none of my readers know anything about _Game of Thrones_, but I'm going to impart some of that knowledge for context into what Sedris said as her last words. The theme of _Game of Thrones_ can be summed up in the phrase used throughout the show: _Valar Morghulis_, "all men must die." So i thought it was stupid and cheap when one of the female characters [Danaerys Targaryen] states "yes, all men must die. But we are not men", as if to say that the natural rules of life don't apply to women. And no, i'm not taking this out of proportion: i've been thoroughly steeped in feminism ever since high school and reading and seeing _Wicked_, and, like _American Horror Story,_ i have seen what they truly believe in. It's not equality, it's the inherent superiority of women over men, the belief that the normal rules of life don't apply to women [ie. "female characters don't have to be sympathetic or kind. They don't need motivation, or character or personality: just give them a sword and make them emasculate men all the time and never be weak, and there you have it!" And that's just in the realm of character writing!] So in Sedris i've brought that twisted mindset back down to earth: women aren't exempt from death any more than men are.)**


	50. To Claim an Empire

**(AN: Apparently there have been some complaints made in my older stories by certain reviewers that Eirik is not lashing out at anyone [usually Crixus] who calls him a "stupid barbarian" or other colorful insult. This makes me lose my faith in the intelligence of you reviewers. I think it's apparent by now that i like the Nords, and since the _Skyrim_ game developers, fucking kirkbride, my brother, the writers here on _FFN_ and the majority of the _Elder Scrolls_ fandom [on and off tumblr] have a clear anti-Nord bias, i feel that there needs to be at least one educated person in their corner [honestly, all of the books you read in _Skyrim_ are anti-Nord, or even anti-human]. The point that you all seem to be missing is this: if you want to write a book about how cool Japanese are, you don't go into gory detail over the rape of Nanjing. If you want to make a movie about how peaceful mohammedans are, you don't use the islamic state of Israel and Syria as your prime example. Likewise, if you're going to refute the common prejudice that all Nords are ignorant, mead-guzzling, short-tempered barbarians, you don't depict them as ignorant, short-tempered and mead-guzzling!)**

**(If that didn't annoy you, something that happens in this chapter certainly will. I won't give away any major spoilers since we're at the closing action and you just need to read [also this chapter might also end up being another long-one: hopefully not too long, since i'm already getting complaints that i'm not "following my schedule" with frequent updates].)**

* * *

**To Claim an Empire**

Crixus went out of the house and walked down to Lake Arrius, where he washed his hands in the icy-cold waters. But they still bore a pinkish hue and would not stop shaking. After this, he walked back inside and examined the house from top to bottom. All told there were sixteen bodies inside the house: a husband, his wife, their three kids, ten servants and what remained of Sedris Ulver. Their bodies could not be permitted to remain here in the house, for he had a design to use it for himself. Therefore he dragged them outside into the fields around the manor-house, and there dumped upon them straw which he had gotten from the beds in the servants quarters downstairs. Once he had a nice, dry pile, he set it on fire. For hours it burned, sending up black smoke and acrid fumes into the air: but Crixus remained at its side even until nightfall, warming his still shaking hands. No matter where he looked, he could not get out of his mind the image of Sedris Ulver. Even after what remained of her body turned to ashes, he could not look anywhere without seeing her: not in shadows or in the flame, not in darkness or in light.

It was thus that he decided not to hasten at once to the Roxey Inn. At the very least, he might reach there in two days time on Shadowmere, and that would have to be enough. For now, however, he chose to remain behind at the Liore House until he was more stable. After several hours passed into the dark of night, the cold drove Crixus back into the house, where he sought out such blankets that were not covered in blood, then wrapped himself in them and slept in a bed that had not contained a body. All night his hands shivered and quaked and continued to shake until he lost consciousness. His dreams were filled with images of Sedris Ulver from throughout his life: it seemed that killing his stepmother hadn't killed her memory, as he had hoped.

When the morning came, he awoke and went throughout the house, seeking out whatever he could. He found food in the pantry near the servants' quarters, which he ate greedily. They appeared to have been well-stocked for the coming winter months, for which Crixus was thankful. Their supply of strong drink, however, was unforgivably low. Therefore, throughout the day and the night, Crixus was haunted by images and memories of Sedris Ulver. Without beer, the images were especially vivid and, for a short while in that cold, dark solitude, he lost all understanding of reality: sleep and wakefulness were alike, for he walked in a waking dream where memory came to life all around him.

How much time passed in this state he did not know. Perhaps a minute, perhaps three long hours, a weary afternoon, or one whole day. During this time, he saw many things that were not from his memory. He saw the Red Mountain, eternally spouting gray ash. He saw deep veins of Dwemer copper and spelter, and in his hand the Miraak soul gem. He saw the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in all of Skyrim. He saw a young woman in a saber-cat hide pawing through the snow, looking for something: looking for a cave. He had no idea how he knew that she sought for a cave, for he had never seen her before and had never been farther up that mountain than High Hrothgar. He saw what appeared to be a great structure of malachite and crystals of diverse colors: lying in ruins and left there in the open. The ruin faded and he saw once again the sea of mist and its bright light-pillar, and he on the boat sailing towards it. He held out his hands towards the pillar of light, trying to reach out and part the curtains of darkness with his own hands.

Then the images shifted and he saw a brand new image, one most frightening. He saw a dark sky and him standing on a black, burned ground. Before him he saw great canyons that ripped into the hard, blackened ground, and at their bottoms were great gears and machinery. There was fire in the sky, the earth in the south rolling up like a scroll, gathering up on high as though it would crash down upon his head: but it did not crash, it only proceeded to keep on gathering. At his sides he saw a man in dragon-bone armor and a woman in steel and clad in a saber-cat skin: behind them were many others, bearing weapons of steel and armor. The man in dragon-bone armor pointed towards the east, and all eyes turned thither, as well as Crixus'. In the east he saw a massive Dwemer machine stomping across the land, causing earthquakes that shattered the ground with each foot-step. Crixus saw something in its chest, something glowing with a pale blue light: something familiar.

Though he could see the man in dragon-bone armor, the woman wearing the saber-cat and others speaking, he could not hear words. All he heard were phrases from elsewhere, half-heard whispers of things he did not understand. _The Secret Tower is the One and Only Name of God. The Wheel is a Sphere. All divine endure. Everyone dies, even gods. Vehk killed Moon-and-Star. Vehk did not kill Moon-and-Star. The Dragon keeps breaking. Time is beyond the power of mortals. Lorkhan chose man to upset the rigidity of elven supremacy and begin a new age. The Dunmer shall escape the Wheel and tread upon the Trickster's corpse while all the races died below. The Grey Spirit had a personal agenda against him. There was no Grey Spirit. The Dwemer are the new gods of the sky. The Dwemer annihilated themselves._

Out of the midst of these endless refutations and banal contradictions, a familiar, ghastly face appeared. The face of the Night Mother.

"_My son,_" she said. "_My child of chaos. Did you really think that I had forsaken you? Never. You were not the first to be called Listener, and you shall not be the last. While you go forth to claim your throne, while you seek for that which cannot be found, and while you sit upon the Ruby Throne in your old age, there I shall ever be, guiding you, instructing you, bringing my wayward children back into the arms of Sithis._"

With these words in his mind, Crixus passed into a deep, dark slumber. Then he rose up and made his way out of the house and into the fields. Once he came outside, he took up the Shadowmere amulet and summoned the black steed yet again. He then mounted up and urged his horse southwestward, holding on for dear life as the horse from the depths of the darkness ran across the snowy fields. He arrived at the western gate of Cheydinhal, where he asked for a message sent by the swiftest raven owned by the Thieves Guild to Senschal. As soon as the raven was sent, Crixus summoned Shadowmere and took off, riding southwest from the city. At last night fell and Crixus fell asleep in the saddle. When he awoke, the morning had already come: but whether it was the morning of the very next day, or if another day had passed, he did not know. All that he knew was that he was sore and cold and stiff in the saddle and weary. More so than he had ever felt while on the road after a night's rest. But he still had his Legion training and so he pushed himself onward.

* * *

By now autumn was gone and winter had already gripped Cyrodiil. Only Leyawiin and the Gold Coast saw a dull, overcast, brown-green land: everything north of the Strid River was covered in snow and ice. Therefore it was upon a cold winter's morning that Crixus came down out of the Upper Niben and into the Heartland. Here he saw the Imperial City clothed all around in white under dark, sullen clouds. From there he turned westward until he came by Fort Chalman: this he knew from the many days he spent seeking out Divayth Fyr the Wanderer. To the west was the bend in the Red Ring Road that went westwards: upon its right-hand side going westward there was the Roxey Inn. Crixus had finally reached his destination.

Outside of the little inn made of white lime, stone and wood, Crixus saw several horses tied up at the hitching post. He had no idea if these were indeed the horses of his companions, for Petruvius' horse had been killed by Benjin's mercenaries. Nevertheless, he had come this far: he had to see if they were still here. Into the inn he passed and, coming to the common room, he saw a small group of tables that had been pulled together. At those tables were the Sons of Skyrim and what remained of his own group. Crixus also noticed several others present here, others who he had not recgonized. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, he slowly approached the group.

"There you are, sir!" Petruvius spoke up. "A day early as well."

"Really?" Crixus gasped, hiding his right hand behind his back. His hands were still shaking. "What day is it?"

"You said we had ten days," Petruvius said. "Today is the 28th of Evening Star, nine days after we left Bruma. We were wondering when you would arrive."

"Well, I'm here," Crixus replied. "Is everything ready?"

In this Petruvius had good news to deliver. Before they left Bruma, they had brought Drogon with them. Crixus was pleased, for it meant that he had a little bit of extra muscle on his side in case Eirik and the Sons of Skyrim turned against him (as he suspected they would). He was now outside in the woods, warming himself by a fire that had been made for him. Aside from him, the others had recruited a few to serve in the undertaking as well. They had found Raynor Indarys and, without telling him that Crixus intended to become Emperor, acquired his services. He had recognized Tiraa Vilenis and on her insistence joined the group. With him were several others whom he had recruited for Crixus' cause: a Breton knight of Wayrest named Salomon, an outcast Redguard sorcerer named Bacham and the Dunmer thief Ulain Selaro.

"I'm impressed!" Crixus grinned. "I made a call and it was answered, in spades! Now, then, before we rush in to our deaths, let's take a moment or two to plan this out."

"What do you have in mind, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I've heard," Crixus stated. "That there will be a triumph held in the Imperial City. One to honor the victory of the Imperial Legion against the Stormcloak rebellion." He looked across at Eirik, flashing him a smile such that even Idolaf Battle-Born would have quailed beneath in the days of his strength. Eirik frowned and shook his head, but Crixus turned back to his companions.

"It would be good to see that," he continued. "To witness the Imperial Legion in all of its greatness in victory over the savages." His smile then faded. "But, for our purposes, the triumph must serve as a diversion. Our path will be through the Shield Quarter in the north-eastern corner of the Outer City. There are riots there at all times."

"Like the eastern half of Cheydinhal," Raynor added. "It's a shame that quarter bears the name of the Shield of Hlaalu. Our name has begun to stink in the nostrils of all of civilized Tamriel as much as that of Nords."

Angry, furtive whispers were spoken among the tables at which the Sons of Skyrim were seated. Tiraa Vilenis watched this as Crixus and Raynor were speaking.

"Indeed," Crixus added. "But we will use that chaos to our advantage. No one goes into the Shield Quarter, as I've seen, especially the city guards. With the triumph going on in the Weye Promenade on the other side of the city, all attention of the city guards will be there. We will pass through the Shield Quarter and arrive at the Market District. From there, it will be no trouble to reach the Imperial Palace."

"Is this so?" Petruvius asked.

"Perhaps," Estalenya evasively replied. "But it would be folly to assume ethat the Imperial Palace won't be guarded at all during the triumph."

"Indeed," Crixus stated. "That's where the Sons of Skyrim come in." He waved Eirik over to their table. A smile split his face when the Nord walked over.

"Yes?" Eirik demanded. "What do you want?"

"To give you your orders," Crixus replied. "You will lead the charge into the city: you and your Sons of Skyrim. Storm the gates and open us a way into the Imperial Palace. Once we've reached the Imperial Palace, secure the White-Gold Tower. Afterwards, I will give you your freedom."

Crixus grumbled, but said not a word as he turned back to his table with the others. Crixus chuckled as he turned back to his companions.

"It was good that I'm here a day early," he stated. "Because tomorrow, we need to conceal ourselves. Hoods, cloaks, scarves, anything we can get our hands on. While the Sons of Skyrim go charging in first, we will hide ourselves at the rear-guard, following in their wake. In this way, we will take the Imperial Palace with no one knowing our business until the end."

"Can it be done?" Antilius asked, a surprised look on his face. "Can we indeed take the city?"

"I don't think so," Estalenya replied. "None have taken the Imperial City through trickery. Even the Mythic Dawn dared not actually take the city in the days of the Septims."

"Well," Crixus stated. "There's always a first time."

"I won't put my trust in this," Estalenya shook her head. "The Penitus Oculatus are still quite numerous and will be keeping watch over the Imperial Palace. There won't be any way of getting inside."

"I'm willing to take that chance," Crixus stated. "We've come too far to turn back now. If we wait any longer, the High Chancellor will discover our whereabouts, and we will be on the run for the rest of our natural lives. It must come to an end."

"Well," Estalenya sighed. "I, for one, am not impressed with your haphazard, lackidasical attitude towards this very serious matter. It's more than likely that we will be stopped by the Penitus Oculatus and overwhelmed: then it's off to the Imperial Bastion for all of us, a death sentence on all of our heads."

"If we are stopped," Crixus replied. "Then we will be captured and we will die indeed. But it will be more likely that the Sons of Skyrim will be captured. At which point, we will disperse and each go our own separate ways. Don't worry about finding each other again, for, as I explained earlier, we will be on the run. Therefore I see nothing great lost if we win or lose: if we take the Imperial Palace, a new Emperor will set to right any wrongs that may have happened in our great Empire. If we lose..." He gazed over at the Sons of Skyrim, a self-satisfied grin on his face. "...then the worst of the barbarians will be dead and slain for us. Either way, the good of the Empire will be served."

"You're a cruel man, Servius Crixus," Estalenya shook her head.

Crixus chuckled. "It's been my experience that 'cruelty' is a name given to actions most people are too weak to do for themselves."

"I only have one question," Antilius spoke up. "How will we cross Lake Rumare? We have no boats, and the river is likely to be high from rainfall in the Lower Niben."

"It's also winter," Crixus stated. "We can cross the Lake on foot."

"Except that's bullshit," Eirik interjected.

"Excuse me?" Crixus asked.

"You've never spent much time in the snow, have you?" asked Eirik.

"And you have?" Crixus returned.

"I made it out into the Sea of Ghosts," Eirik stated. "To prove my worthiness to join the Stormcloaks: alone."

"You mean," Crixus returned. "Ulfric sent you out into the frozen wasteland to die? What a fucking cunt!"

"It was a test of strength and resilience," Eirik replied. "What does the Legion do to prove worth to their recruits?"

"Our officers beat the living shite out of us!" Crixus retorted, anger building up in his chest. "Trained and disciplined by centuries old military tradition. Only the strongest survive such rigorous training: anything less is fodder."

"And how are your Legion traditions better than what Ulfric put me up to?" Eirik asked.

"Because _we_ are the good guys, you fucking shite!" Crixus shouted. "You're ignorant savages, killing anyone you deem too weak! The Empire is infallible and beyond all criticism! That's why we won! That's why you're _my_ b*tch and will do whatever _I_ want, is that fucking clear?"

Eirik scowled. "I had intended to tell you how to cross the lake. But since you're acting like a petulant Altmer..."

"Watch your tongue, savage!" Estalenya exclaimed.

"Please, do tell us, noble savage," Antilius inquired.

"Ice can't be walked upon without ice-shoes," Eirik stated. "Lydia bought some for me when we went out onto the sea, via an ice-shelf. Boots or bare feet slip on the ice and can send one down hard to shatter the ice."

"Then what do you suggest, o knowlegeable one?" Crixus sardonically retorted.

"It's much colder in Winterhold than down here in the Heartland," Eirik said. "Ice in the far north is frozen solid: even a horker couldn't break it. But down here, we can't hope to cross any lake on foot. The ice is thin this far south, it'll break under our weight."

"Not if we freeze it," Tiraa stated. "A few thickening spells should work to make the ice stronger."

"That won't keep you from sliding on it," Eirik added. "You'll need proper shoes."

"Well, then," Crixus replied. "You and your Sons of Skyrim go into the woods, cut down some trees and make them! It's what you get for interfering in the business of your betters!"

Eirik scowled and turned away, but Petruvius leaned over to Crixus' ear and whispered: "May I have a word with you in private?" Crixus nodded, then followed Petruvius outside into the cold courtyard of the inn.

"Well, out with it," Crixus said.

"Why do we need the Sons of Skyrim here, sir?" Petruvius asked. "Most everyone here hates them, you hate them, and they hate you. Wouldn't they be a liability with whatever we're planning?"

"Go on," Crixus uttered.

"If it's a question of strength," Petruvius reasoned. "Then we have Drogon. And if we're hoping for stealth, then we need not such great numbers."

"Ah, dear Silenius," Crixus replied, using his squire's first name. "There's still much you haven't learned. In war, it's not enough merely to break the armed might of the enemy. You have to break their spirit as well." He sighed, realizing once again that his rationale was leading him to the only logical conclusion, though he was loath to admit it: the Empire had lost the Great War.

"But we're not at war with Skyrim anymore, sir," Petruvius stated. "The war is over. Should we not rather rebuild favorable relations with our once greatest asset?"

"There are no treaties made between men and dogs," Crixus replied. "For my part, the war will never be over...not until every last son and daughter of Skyrim lies dead in the cold, hard ground. Only then can we be safe from the bloody wars of extermination they'd wage against anyone different than them."

"Then send them away, sir, if that is your purpose!" Petruvius urged. "We're likely to fall by the wayside, bickering and arguing, before ever we reach the Ruby Throne."

"But I have a purpose, Petruvius," Crixus stated. "Men like Eirik are easy to manipulate: their sense of honor and duty bind them in situations where a sane man would be free to act in his own self-interest. I persuaded him once to give up his country in exchange for the greater good of the Empire, and I feel that I still hold sway over him yet." He chuckled.

"What's funny, sir?" Petruvius asked.

"I was just thinking," Crixus replied. "About how indecisive Eirik is. His honor and duty will hold him bound to me, and once he realizes who he's helped reach the throne, his indecision will bind him with inaction. He will have no argument to make against my rule, since I will hold over his head that his power gave me power."

"A dangerous course of action, sir," Petruvius shook his head.

"I know this ignorant little shite," Crixus grinned. "His bastard of a father was loyal, and Eirik knows this. Nords have a warped sense of honor: they feel that they have to live up to the names of their deceased ancestors. Fucking idiots. But that honor will bind him, make him indecisive. And for as long as he remains thus, I have control over him."

Little did he know that someone was listening.

* * *

The morning of the twenty-ninth day of Evening Star dawned cold and overcast with clouds. The Sons of Skyrim were busy all that night, fashioning spiked wooden shoes and staves for the trek across Lake Rumare. Crixus ordered the first ones across to be Tiraa, Estalenya, Antilius and Bacham. As the four sorcerers in the company, they would thicken the ice while the others came up behind them. While these three were putting on their ice-walking gear, Estalenya, who refused to have such 'crude' embellishments upon her feet, remained at Crixus' side, gazing out towards the Shield Quarter.

"Go put your ice-walking shoes on," Crixus stated.

"This plan is going to fail," Estalenya replied. "Surely there will be guards on the other side of the Lake. They will see us and then the jig will be up."

"I thought of that, actually," Crixus grinned. "Now put your shoes on."

"This is servants' work!" she sneered. "I will not callous my hands with such uncouth pursuits!"

Crixus groaned. "Petruvius, put the shoes on our dear Lady Estalenya." He then walked over to Eirik, who was leaning upon his sword, gazing out at the Imperial City.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Crixus asked. "That's something you Nords can't appreciate, though: the beauty of Elven culture. If it weren't for the Elves, we wouldn't have that great structure you're gazing at."

"I've never seen the Imperial City," Eirik replied, refusing to look at Crixus. "Not even when I lived in Bruma."

"Still," Crixus returned. "The snows have taken hold in the Highlands, but down here, we might be spotted crossing this lake. Isn't there anything you can do about it?"

"I thought you said no use of the Voice," Eirik stated.

"I did," Crixus replied. "But in this place, we might actually need it. Just so long as you don't summon any dragons. As useful as that may be, we don't need a fire-breathing monster flying around the Imperial City, destroying everything. Unlike you, I actually care about my people, who are in that city as we speak."

"What shall I do?" Eirik asked.

"I don't fucking know," groaned Crixus. "You have a shout to clear the skies, don't you have one to fill the skies with clouds of darkness? Or-or some kind of storm to mask our approach?"

"I might," Eirik replied. "But you might not like it."

"As long as we're hidden in our approach," Crixus said. "I won't mind."

Eirik sighed, then turned his gaze up to the sky. He took in a deep breath, then closed his eyes. Then, suddenly, he uttered three words which Crixus had never heard him speak before: "_Strun...Bah Qo!_"

Crixus had never heard Ulfric Stormcloak use the Voice. Eirik had once and he later remarked how it felt as though the rocks shook at his Voice. Crixus had heard Eirik use the Voice many times, but this time there was something different. Crixus felt the stones at the shore of Lake Rumare quiver and a dull, low rumble shudder through the ice beyond them with the uttering of those three words. Tiraa, Ulain, Raynor and Estalenya quivered in fright at that Voice and would not willingly recount that morning afterwards. The others of Crixus' company said they heard a great crack of thunder without a peal of lightning. The Sons of Skyrim, on the other hand, told a different story. To them, they said that it was as if Ysmir, the ancient hero of the North, champion of Shor, had come back to life in Eirik. In this, they agreed with Crixus, who looked upon the trembling of the stones and Eirik's fierce countenance and feared yet again what had daunted him ever since they had first met.

That Eirik was the Grey Spirit.

* * *

Ciprius Cantilius, Count of Bravil, was not pleased with this arrangement. At every other triumph or parade the Emperor or the Elder Council had held in the Imperial City, each count had their own personal box from which they might watch the parade. But as it was, he was now being forced to share one box with the other counts. Of all the insults to someone of his seniority and disability! He had come a long way in harsh weather to come to this triumph, hardly an easy task at his age. As if to make matters worse, Pelagius had not returned or sent any news on the whereabouts of his daughter Aelina. His only satisfaction was that he had arrived at the box before the other counts had arrived and, therefore, could find for himself the best seat.

This he did, though had quite a bit of difficulty in doing. The best seats were at the edge of the box, down a flight of three steps. At his age and weight, that might as well be as far away as Akavir. At the very least, he would have to walk back from the stairs leading to the box to his carriage which would take him back to Bravil: he didn't need to be walking up and down more stairs just to reach a better view, dammit! While he was thus fussing with his servants over his place, two other noblemen with their entourage arrived. Cantilius shuffled around as best he could to see the newcomers. One was Count Cassius Urtius, the new Count of Anvil, and the other was Count Edvald the Wise, the Count of Bruma. As they saw each other, they both bowed gracefully and made the proper introductions. They then turned and saw Count Cantilius standing there, red-faced and breathing heavily.

"Well, this certainly is a surprise," Edvald condescendingly greeted. "I would have assumed the journey to the triumph to be too strenuous for one of your age...and weight."

"And I would have assumed, Count Edvald," Cantilius retorted, pointing a thick finger at him. "That you would have been too busy to come here, what with so many savages in your county to take care of."

"As as I would have been, indeed," Edvald replied. "Had I not found someone of a kindred spirit who offered a more...final solution."

"Good," Cantilius nodded, his neck jiggling. "Perhaps then we will see less lawlessness in the northern counties."

"One can only hope," Edvald returned.

"And you, Urtius," Cantilius sneered: the old families had died out in Anvil, and to the old Count of Bravil, both the Maros and the Urtii were of the 'new wealth.' "I do believe you're lost. The entrance to the general seating is down a flight of stairs and to the left."

"I'm a count, old man!" Urtius sneered. "I have just as much right to be in the grand seats as you do." He looked down at the short, fat old man. "And I would have preferred a proper seat, one more to my liking..."

"I'm sure the stable-boys can accomodate you," Cantilius chuckled, his entire girth quivering with his attempt at laughter. Edvald covered his mouth with his gloved hand, for he too was smiling.

"Now now, save that for Brachus," Urtius groaned.

"I heard that he lost the throne of Kvatch lately," Edvald noted. "Something about an escaped gladiator from his arena."

"Oh, you try telling _him_ that!" Urtius chuckled. "Now, as I was saying, I would have preferred a seat more befitting my tastes and stature as a count." He scowled. "As it turns out, the High Chancellor has ordered that we all occupy this one booth."

"Why is that?" Cantilius asked. "Surely he of all people knows our status and position. Why would he degrade us by putting us all in one box together?"

"Interesting question," a voice spoke up. Edvald and Urtius turned to the newcomer while Cantilius shuffled as best he could. Standing there was the short, buxom, red-haired Countess Sibylla Caro, decked in a green dress. At her side was a taller woman with a pale-yellow, gaunt face, short yellow hair and dressed in armor.

"How could you have heard that?" Edvald stated.

"Oh, do be quiet, Edvald," Caro dismissed. "No one here disagrees with your assessment that the Nords are a troublesome lot, but, really, your constant criticisms make you the most unwelcome of guests at any social event." She walked over to one of the eight chairs and took her seat, the armored woman at her side.

"Oh, I do believe you may recognize my kinswoman here?" she said. "Arcadia Valga, a servant in the house of Chorrol. Which reminds me: Count Fraseric and Count Romulus should be arriving shortly. We passed them on our way up here."

"Ah, Countess Caro," Cantilius beamed: her family was one of the 'old wealth', and therefore as respectable to him as Lexerus Buteo himself. "We stand in awe of your presence. Why, the moment you entered this box, the sun itself seemed to..."

"Spare me the flattery," groaned Caro. "I have enough on my shoulders as it is without the burden of flattering words from a sload."

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Cantilius in a frustrated voice, his whole body shaking.

"Yes," Edvald stated, his nose lifted in august aloofness. "It must be frustrating, dealing with the plague and those incompetent fools in the College of Whispers. I heard half of your city was destroyed when the College mages summoned a deedra in the city square. Must be terrible."

"No more terrible than being everything you hate," Caro noted. "Do try not to lose anymore hair on that. One would think high-born Imperials are chronically cursed with baldness."

Edvald clasped his hand to his forehead, scowling as he did. His hair was receding from his forehead with each passing day and, ere long, he would indeed be bald save for the hair around his ears. While these three were arguing, Urtius greeted the newcomers. Fraseric was looking nervously at the floor, while Romulus had a wide smile on his face and a boy of seven with a fearful expression on his face under his right hand. With their meager entourage, they too took their seats with the others.

"I've never been to a triumph before," Count Fraseric spoke. "Could you, perhaps, tell me what to expect?"

"Only a fool asks to see the end of a thing before it has begun," Edvald sneered.

"A fool, and a lazy one at that!" Cantilius added without irony, punctuating his position by holding up one large finger.

"There was one held after the Great War came to a close," Count Urtius replied. "Usually the Legions march through the Weye Promenade, displaying all their banners and captains dressed in their finest armor and presenting their weapons. Then the Battle-Mage cohorts arrive and there's plenty of fireworks to go along with them: magical, of course. Harmless stuff, also. The Synod regulates all of these events, making sure that nothing is cast that is too dangerous. About half-way through the triumph, then come great wagons full of food, which is thrown to the crowds. Most come only for this, but it's certainly effective."

"Effective how?" Fraseric asked.

"Because," Urtius replied, warming up to his subject. "Immediately after the food comes the generals who led the Legions to victory. The gift of free food reminds the people to look to the heads of state as the givers of blessings, the protectors of the realm and the defenders of the Empire. With the generals come great flotillas carried on the backs of conquered foes, which bear all matter of rich booty gained during the war. Then, in a chariot drawn by prisoners of war, comes the head of the campaign."

"Sounds like slavery," Fraseric stated.

"The Empire is above such trivial, provincial activities," Edvald replied.

"In name only, as it may soon appear," a drawling voice sneered. All faces turned around towards Dreyla Sarys, countess of Cheydinhal. Her entourage were only Dunmer, and she looked down upon the other counts before her. "Well? Why won't you _n'wahs_ offer a lady of noble-birth her proper seat?" She walked down the stairs towards Edvald. "You're in my seat, white-Nord."

"Don't remind me," Edvald hissed through clenched teeth.

"I _will_ remind an _n'wah_ of his proper place," Sarys replied. "And it is at my feet, serving me! Now get out of my seat!" Edvald removed himself as Dreyla Sarys took her place and turned towards Count Fraseric.

"As I was saying," she replied. "Your _n'wah_ Empire claims to oppose slavery, yet for centuries you have allowed slavery to exist in Morrowind. Now that the _n'wah_-loving House Hlaalu is disgraced and cast from the Council of the Great Houses, it is time to settle matters rightly. After all, I above all others have paid special attention to what was transpiring in the North during the Civil War, which we are gathered here to celebrate its victory. The Empire treat the white-_n'wahs_ the way we treat you all: as beneath us! They are slaves in all but name."

"But the Empire does not condone slavery!" Cantilius insisted, tapping his finger intently upon the arm of his chair.

Dreyla Sarys chuckled. "Behold, a quick sload." She turned away, looking down towards the long causeway of the Weye Promenade below. "My only interest in coming here in the High Chancellor. It is in the best interests of the Empire that Cheydinhal cede from the Empire and join Morrowind."

"Secession!" exclaimed Caro. "You can't be serious!"

"Why not?" Sarys asked. "General Tullius agreed to allow two Northern holds to secede. Why not Cheydinhal?"

"That was different," Romulus stated. "In war, men are forced to do terrible things. General Tullius needed stability in the region, that is why he gave the Reach to King Madanach. And, if I may say, he has only done what is best for the Empire. The people of Skyrim living in the Reach will have a better life living under the Reachmen."

"I beg to differ," Fraseric shook his head. "The Reachmen are not to be trusted. They are mindless and feral, killing without concern for their losses, refusing all attempts to reason with them through bribery. They terrorize the people..."

"Nord people, I might add," Edvald stated. "All Nords are terrorists themselves, they deserve to be terrorized."

"Hear hear!" exclaimed Sarys.

"We can't give away our own land for the sake of appeasement!" exclaimed Caro. "Giving even as much as a foot of land will make those who demanded it greedy. Soon they will want a yard, then an acre, then a mile: before you know it, you've sold all that you've had in the name of appeasement. That was a mistake the Emperor made when he gave Hammerfell to the Dominion."

"Hold your tongue, woman!" sneered Cantilius. "Your words are the words of a traitor!"

"If my ancestors," Caro returned. "Had bowed to the demands of the Renrijra Krin, there would be in-fighting throughout the Lower Niben for two hundred years. Who knows but that the fate of the War might have been very different."

"It is not wise to speak ill of the Dominion," Urtius stated.

"Verily," added Romulus.

"Forsooth," Edvald stated.

"They are, after all, our friends," a newcomer spoke. An Imperial woman with dark hair, a crimson dress and an air of authority walked into the box. All eyes turned toward her, after which Urtius announced her.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the House of Nobles," he said. "Allow me to introduce to you Leonora Venatus, head of the Placators and Imperial liaison to the Thalmor Ambassador here in the Imperial City. She's also written the exquisite piece of work entitled _The Talos Mistake_."

"And where is your mistress, hmm?" Caro asked. "I'd expect you to be following in her train, your nose firmly planted in her yellow ass."

"Lady Arannelya will hear of these words," Leonora Venatus stated, a smile upon her face. "As for where she is, behold!" She gestured with one hand across the Promenade. There in one of their boxes sat Lady Arannelya beneath a canopy. "She is here to enjoy the spectacle of the triumph. The Dominion and the Empire are, after all, friends, united in service of the greater good. This victory over the barbarians of the North is a victory for the White-Gold Concordant, and therefore a victory for the Dominion as well as for the Empire."

"Don't remind us," Caro grumbled.

"I will have my servants bring you a chair," Edvald stated. "So that you may sit with us."

"Oh, there is no need," Leonora Venatus replied. "I will have your seat."

"But I was just cast out of my seat!" bemoaned Edvald.

"Shall I tell Lady Arannelya that you are being uncooperative towards one in her service?" Venatus asked. "One who has her trust?"

At this, Edvald rose to his feet and stood while Leonora gracefully took her seat.

"Where is the High Chancellor?" asked Dreyla Sarys. "I must speak with him at once. My only interest in this triumph is in securing the freedom of the oppressed Dunmer of Cheydinhal."

"He is at the end of the Promenade," Caro said, pointing down the long causeway. "Seated in the stead of the Emperor, who remains in the White-Gold Tower, beset with illness."

As soon as Sibylla Caro had finished speaking, brass trumpets resounded loudly below, signifying the beginning of the triumph. As if in answer, the sky began to darken.

"Gods, not a storm!" groaned Fraseric.

"Let us hope," Venatus replied, grinning. "That this storm will not interfere with the triumph. Now then, gentlemen, let the festivities commence."

* * *

The clouds gathered above the Imperial City, dark and threatening. Lighting flashed through the clouds, then sent massive, roaring thunder. All eyes, even those of the city guards along the northeastern waterfront - those who had no choice but to serve in the Shield Quarter - gazed up at the sky. Every moment, brilliant flashes of lightning burst forth, getting closer and closer. At any moment it seemed that one would reach down and strike the ground in a devastating burst of fire and light.

Few paid attention to the small group crossing the frozen Lake Rumare on wooden shoes with spikes, armed with short staves in their hands. The wind that seemed to be at odds with the guards, blowing the storm upon them from out of the north, was giving them haste and swiftness in crossing the lake at its narrowest point. No sooner had they arrived at the opposite shore when there was a loud peel and a crack, and suddenly a house exploded as a bolt of lightning struck it. The Shield Quarter was in chaos as lightning bolts rained down from the sky, striking indiscriminately. It worked as well as any riot may have worked, and it allowed the group to climb up out of the river, take off their wooden shoes, discard their staves and run into the city proper.

At their head was Eirik the Dragonborn, surrounded by the Sons of Skyrim. Around him the lightning did not strike and they were safe. Before them none could stand, for the storm followed wherever he went, striking down whoever might foolishly try to stop them. Behind them walked the Kings Men, Crixus' knights loyal only to him: Raynor Indarys, Casmar the Redguard, Alcedonia and Quintus Maro and Salomon the Nameless Breton. Each wore heavy plate armor with hoods over their faces. Behind them came, hooded and cloaked, the new Mages Guild: Tiraa Vilenis, Antilius Luco, Estalenya and Bacham the Sword-Singer. Behind them strode Drogon the Pale, covered in a huge leather tarp to conceal himself, and with him was Garnag the Orc. Last of all walked Silenius Petruvius, his shield covered in leather and his armor hidden with the hood he wore. On the roof-tops ran Servius Crixus and Ulain Selaro, out-racing the storm.

But the daughter of Ocato of Firsthold was right. Even with all of the important guests watching the triumph, High Chancellor Lexerus Buteo had quite enough Penitus Oculati to spare. The majority of them were placed around the Emperor's box at the end of the Weye Promenade, keeping back the crowds from getting a closer look at where the High Chancellor sat. But there were still enough left to defend the Imperial Palace at the base of the White-Gold Tower. And these were waiting for them around the gates of the Imperial Palace.

Most of the city guards that protected the outer ring of the Old City were busy overseeing the triumph, and those that remained saw the storm following the armed company and fled before Eirik and the Sons of Skyrim. They passed through the Market District like a whirlwind, arriving at the gates that led into the outer courtyard of the Imperial Palace. Here they came face-to-face with the Penitus Oculatus guarding the Palace itself.

"Halt!" he ordered. "Lay down your weapons!"

"_Sovngarde saraan!_" Eirik shouted, charging into the midst of them. Behind him came the Sons of Skyrim. Behind them came the new Mages Guild, casting spells left and right. From the roof-tops arrows came whizzing down from Crixus and Ulain: he aimed to cripple them, she aimed to kill them.

They were brought to a stand-still, the shield-bearing Sons of Skyrim forming a small shield wall as those with longer weapons thrust over their shoulders. The Storm Call had taken much out of Eirik and he could not shout again or else risk severe damage to his body, such as he had experienced at Solitude when trying to save Lydia after three consecutive shouts. Lightning and mage-fire struck throughout the Oculati lines, pushing them back step by step. Under lightning, fire, arrows, swords, axes and maces, the Penitus Oculatus were at last pushed up to the very gates of the Imperial Palace.

"Make me an opening!" Crixus shouted from the inner wall of the Palace. Just then an arrow struck him in the shoulder, but it pierced through the skin and was not buried in his shoulder. Looking behind his back, he saw the Imperial city guards regrouping behind them, firing arrows up at the wall. He then turned to Ulain and shouted: "Get down!"

They leaped down from the wall. Ulain landed on the ring of pillars around the entrance to the outer courtyard and Crixus fell into a tree. With a groan he climbed out of the tree and broke the arrow, tearing it out of his shoulder. Just then, Tiraa broke from the fighting to cast a healing spell on his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Crixus groaned. "Where the fuck is my opening?"

Tiraa threw a fire-ball towards the lines, knocking back Oculati and the Sons of Skyrim as well. There was now a path leading straight to the doors.

"Drogon!" Crixus shouted. "Get those doors open, but don't break them!"

With a loud bellow, defying the storm, the minotaur charged towards the doors. The doors to the Imperial Palace were large doors made of ash bound with iron, but they opened inwards. Drogon shoved his mighty shoulder against the door; it buckled, groaned under the strength of his blow, and stood fast. Again Drogon charged again, the door creaking with his weight, but still holding fast. Behind the Sons of Skyrim had slain the Penitus Oculatus guarding the entrance and were now standing around and behind Drogon, who strode back for another strike. The man-bull pawed at the ground, bellowing fiercely, then took off at another charge. He ran and ran, and at last threw his shoulder into the door. This time it gave way, swinging back and allowing them to enter the dark outer anteroom.

Few had ever set foot this far into the Imperial Palace. Even the Hero of Kvatch and Ghar'jumo the Bandit had never gone this far into the revered halls of the White-Gold Tower. It bore a great vaulted roof with many pillars, arches and flying buttresses in the round room. In the center was a large stone room with rounded walls that sealed off the anteroom at one end, forming a C-shape into which they had come. There were many doors leading out from the anteroom, but only one door leading into the inner sanctum.

"Seal the doors!" Crixus shouted. "Then get some lights up here."

There were no lights in the room save for the door which Drogon had opened. Under the supervision of one of the mages, the Sons of Skyrim sealed all the doors they could find then lastly sealed the door they had come through. Once each door was secure, Crixus summoned a ball of candlelight and gazed at the room in which they had entered. It was breathtaking. The floor was of imperishable marble of the same make as the rest of the Ayleid structures dotting the rolling hills of Cyrdoiil, with a single red carpet leading towards the center room. On the walls and the domed ceiling, however, was a great mosaic made of tiny pieces of ceramic tile in various colors. The scenes depicted were many, all of them from the history of Cyrodiil. He saw a young woman with dark hair leading armies of Colovians with shaved heads and Nords with long, bright hair. He saw a man of swarthy skin, hands held in a votive gesture often saved for the Divines and relative saints, standing before tall snake-men, glistening in many colors as they held their long-swords before him in a gesture of respect. He saw a bald elf, half gray and half gold, wreathed in masculine and feminine imagery, extending a hand of friendship towards a place that had been chiseled and carved away. He saw a man with long, light brown hair holding up a ruby, out of which a great golden dragon sprung like a living flame. He saw an old bald man with a white beard kneeling before eight figures and one that had the appearance of being carved away as well. Last of all, he saw another aged man, one he knew to be Titus Mede II, shaking hands with golden Altmer in the black robes of the Thalmor: the signing of the White-Gold Concordant.

"What is this place?" asked Tiraa.

"I've never been here before," Crixus returned. It was the truth, and he had no qualms about speaking the truth here. Apart from Estalenya and Antilius, no one else had been into this great room.

"This is the outer court," Estalenya replied. "Those who wish for an audience with the Emperor wait his convenience in this room."

"And what's all this on the walls and the ceiling?" asked Crixus.

"A complete history of the achievements of Colovian history," Antilius replied. "Look, there is St. Alessia leading the revolt against the Ayleid slavers. There is Reman Cyrodiil receiving the surrender of the Akaviri, who recognized him as the Dragonborn Emperor. Next we see the signing of the Armistice, when the Tribunal and the Emperor came to terms that brought Morrowind into the Empire."

"And that's Talos, I take it," Eirik grimly said, pointing towards the part that had been chiseled out. "Erased out of the history of the Empire."

"As it should have been," Estalenya replied. "Humans may worship elven gods, but they dare not presume that humans may become gods, or worship other humans as gods. It's blasphemy."

"We'll worship as we see fit, b*tch," Falke Four-Fingers snapped back.

"Where's the throne?" Eirik asked, turning to Crixus. "That's what we're here for, isn't it?"

"That way," Crixus pointed with his sword towards the door in the inner room.

Suddenly the door opened, gaping like a dark maw into Oblivion. Everyone gripped their weapons, facing the door ready for battle. Crixus, meanwhile, snuffed out his candlelight and faded into the shadows. From out of the darkness an old man in black and gold robes stepped forth: he had short white hair and a neatly-cropped white beard, and there was anger in his small, dark eyes.

"Servius Crixus, I presume?" he spoke. Crixus did not speak, hiding in the shadows as he was. "Come now, there's no reason to hide. I knew that you would return here, to seek revenge. You're outnumbered three to one." He then chuckled. "Did you think I would come here alone?" He let drop a bell that clanged as it struck the ground. Immediately from hidden doors in the outer court, heavily armed and armored Penitus Oculatus agents swarmed into the court behind them, drawing their weapons. Torches were lit and the outer court they saw to be filled with Oculati. The Sons of Skyrim turned around, forming a small group with weapons pointed out at the newcomers. From among their numbers there strode a tall Altmer in the black robes of the Thalmor, an Akaviri katana in his hands.

"Hello, Eirik," he spoke, addressing the Dragonborn. "I've heard quite a bit about you. A pity you never came to Markarth during the War. I would have succeeded where that fool Thelgil failed."

"And who are you?" Eirik asked.

"Why don't you ask Crixus, then?" the Thalmor retorted. "He has worked quite extensively with us in his time in Skyrim." He chuckled. "Or did he fail to mention that?"

Crixus remained silent and hidden. The others hadn't doffed their hoods, and he might be hidden so long as he spoke not, no matter what may happen.

"It's no use staying silent, Crixus," Lexerus Buteo said, speaking generally to those before him. "You've sealed yourselves in here, and I have one hundred of the finest Penitus Oculatus soldiers in the Empire. If you surrender now, I'll grant you a fair trial."

He could keep silent no longer. Those words stung Crixus' heart, reminding him of past grievances.

"Fair?" Crixus asked. "Like the other one? You never gave me a chance to prove my innocence! You disgraced every principle of justice, honor and duty: principles the Empire upheld!"

"Oblivion take your principles!" Buteo retorted. "I didn't get where I am today by adhering to outdated principles of chivalry and honor! This isn't the Empire of the Septims: we've had to sacrifice many principles for the greater good. And after all the sweat, tears and...blood that _I've_ personally sacrificed to climb to this lofty position and serve the greater good, I won't surrender the Empire to you without a fight. Kill them!"

The Oculati charged upon the defenders. A great melee broke out against Skyrim's boldest sons and the Empire's finest guards since the Blades. Mage-fire was thrown hither and yon, exploding as they struck Oculati, searing them in their armor. Garnag and Drogon worked themselves up into a mad frenzy, until they strode among the Oculati, swatting them back like flies. But the fighting was fierce, for the Oculati were trained not to surrender or run from their duty. They fought to the death and not until they were hacked to pieces or burned in mage-fire did they cease. The Mages were worked until they were almost exhausted and the Kings Men proved their mettle on this day.

Crixus remained close to Eirik, for the dragon-bone armor that he wore turned the blades of those who rose up against him, and he seemed to have grown as a swordsman since Crixus last fought against him. Rather than trying to bash the heavy armor of the Penitus Oculatus, he would take up the sword with both hands and go for piercing thrusts into the gaps in their armor, or murder-strokes on the neck with the bladed guard of the great-sword of the Skaal.

The battle waged on, with the Oculati delivering many sure blows that drew much blood. But so great was the fury of the Sons of Skyrim that it was said in after-days that the Firstborn, those twenty-one brave souls who went to the Imperial City on the twenty-ninth of Evening Star, could not be killed. The mages burned, the knights struck down, the beasts raged and the Nords bludgeoned any who came within reach of their weapons. Slowly but surely the Penitus Oculatus numbers were dwindling. One hundred of their finest had been brought in for the battle: that number was going out.

Ondolemar, the Thalmor who led the Oculati, could see this. But he would not go running just yet. He was, after all, a Thalmor of the Aldmeri Dominion. If they struck him down, it would mean war. Servius Crixus, wherever he might be, would not risk that. But Ondolemar could engage them, strike down the Nord chieftain and finish what Thelgil could not. Drawing out his katana, he strode through the ranks of what was left of the Oculati, eyeing Eirik.

"Make peace with your heathen gods, savage," Ondolemar sneered. "You will be joining them soon."

Eirik hesitated for a moment. He remembered the words he had seen in the Thalmor dossier on Ulfric Stormcloak. They thought they could manipulate him, and Thelgil also made similar words. But they could not manipulate him being dead. Taking up the great-sword of the Skaal, Eirik roared in a voice that reverberated throughout the domed outer court, shaking all who stood there to the bone: "For Ulfric and for Skyrim!"

With a wide swing, he charged at Ondolemar. But the elf stepped to the side, holding his blade down in a stylish fashion after the Akaviri mode of fighting. But Eirik also was swift. Taking up his sword, he swung again, but Ondolemar held up the katana in its way. The fierocity of the strike sent him staggering back, but still unharmed.

"I've heard what you animals did to our headquarters in Skyrim," Ondolemar replied. "It is sad, but only a minor setback!" With this he charged, holding his katana side-ways for a horizontal cut. To his surprise and dismay, his blade struck the dragon-bone armor and sent him swirling off to the side. He had vastly overestimated the cutting strength of an Akaviri katana. According to the biased manuals he had read from Elven and human reports of the Tsaesci invasion, they claimed that the Akaviri katana could cut through steel as easily as through butter. Now, in the thick of battle, those manuals were being proven wrong.

"I secreted out copies of all records obtained by the Thalmor in twenty-seven years of activity in your country," Ondolemar retorted. "Everything that all the agents of the Dominion gathered over the years is now knowledge to myself and to the Ambassador." He charged again, striking Eirik's shoulder-pad so forcefully that he sprung back with the recoil. With knees bent, he seized the blade with both hands, holding it out towards Eirik, preparing for a strike.

"We know everything about you, Eirik Bjornsson," Ondolemar retorted. "If you kill me, the War will begin. I've left specific instructions concerning you, your people, your country...and your family."

Ondolemar charged, but Eirik swung his blade to fend off the katana. There was a loud crack and Ondolemar stumbled forward, holding only the grip of his sword as far as the hilt. The blade was broken, lying on the ground where the great-sword of the Skaal had struck it. But Eirik was not done yet: Ondolemar had spoken the words and what happened next even Crixus could not shake from his mind. Picking up his sword like a lance, Eirik threw the sword at Ondolemar, impaling him and piercing him to the floor. The elf cried out in pain, trying in vain to lift the heavy weapon out of his body to no avail. Eirik approached him, pulled out the great-sword with one hand and, seizing Ondolemar by the head, pulled him up and pinned him to one of the pillars.

"The elves will _never_ have Skyrim!" Eirik shouted. "And you..." He shoved his thumbs into Ondolemar's eyes.

"Please! Please!" cried the elf. "I can help you! I can save them! You have no..."

"This is what happens to those who threaten my family!" Eirik roared. His hands closed in tighter, turning Ondolemar's yellow eyes to blood. Then, with sheer strength born from years of cutting and hauling trees in Falkreath and Bruma, brought against a fragile Altmer, Eirik's hands collapsed, crushing Ondolemar's skull into a bloody mess. The headless body fell lifeless to the ground, and Eirik stepped back, his face drenched in blood. His hands fell to his sides, dropping bloody pieces of crushed elf-skull to the floor. The Penitus Oculatus stood back in shock while the Sons of Skyrim kept their arms raised, anticipating an attack.

"You barbarian!" Buteo shouted. Seeing his champion slain and his defenders rooted, he turned to leave.

"Stop him!" Crixus ordered. Bacham cast a burdening spell, causing Chancellor Buteo's robes to weigh as though they were made of stone. He collapsed to the floor, over-encumbered by his own clothing. As the old man struggled to crawl away on the floor, Crixus stepped out towards Lexerus Buteo, kneeling down beside him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Crixus asked. "I've sealed all the doors. Even if, by some miracle, you were able to reach the Docking Exchange, you won't be able to escape by sea. I've blockaded the Nibenay River."

"All I have done," struggled Buteo. "I have done for Cyrodiil. I kept the peace, for my part was not to change the world, but to preserve the purity and security of sacred Cyrodiil and her people!"

"And now," Crixus replied. "Your service has come to an end." Taking out the Nightingale Blade, Crixus drove it into Buteo's heart. He then turned to the Penitus Oculatus.

"You're all sworn to silence," Crixus stated. "By order of the Emperor...and the authority of his servants here and now. Lay down your arms. The battle is over."

The Penitus Oculatus were ready to fight till the death, but now they had no one to defend. The Emperor they knew to be dead, the Chancellor was dead, and now a very powerful agent of the Thalmor lay at their feet, his skull crushed. Who was there left to follow?

"Get out of here!" Crixus ordered. "Send the Emperor's couriers here at once. I have messages to send. Call a meeting of the Elder Council." Crixus then took out his blade from Buteo's body and gestured towards the body of Ondolemar. "Unless you want to end up like them...for nothing, that is."

"We don't surrender that easily," one of the Oculati replied.

"This is not a surrender," Crixus stated. "We are not rebels trying to overthrow the Empire. We are loyalists and this is merely a transition: there is a new Emperor to sit upon the Ruby Throne. I am his voice: now go, do as I say!"

The Oculati looked towards their captain, seeking for orders. After a lengthy silence, the Oculati captain sent some of his men to bring the couriers to the Palace, others to gather the Elder Council and others to secure the doors into the Palace. Once they left, Crixus turned to Eirik.

"The High Chancellor was right," Crixus said to him. "You're a fucking barbarian."

"I told you I wouldn't take threats against my family," Eirik returned. "Now you know what's in store for you if you threaten my family again."

Crixus laughed. "I should have known! All that posturing through all our long months together: every insult you took without blanching, every time I mocked your people and insulted your woman. I knew you couldn't take it forever! It shows that I'm right! I'm right and you were wrong! Your little education at Bruma isn't worth shite: deep down inside, you're just another ignorant, elf-hating, mead-swilling, short-tempered savage, just like the rest of your pathetic white race! I was right! Your kind are fucking savages! You deserve to be slaughtered wholesale! Wiped off the map, erased before you commit yet another genocide like your fucking Ysgramor!" Crixus walked towards Eirik, seizing his bone armor with his hands and gazing up at him.

"I know what you are!" he hissed. "You can't fool me! Dragonborn, Shezzarine, Dragon of the North, whatever the fuck you call yourself! You're the Grey Spirit!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Eirik replied. "Now let me go!"

"All that talk you said before," Crixus continued. "The Wulfharth to my Talos. I should have seen it before! You want to fucking kill me, don't you? And then spread your poisonous influence all across Tamriel, until every last elf has been killed! But I won't let you do it, you hear me?"

"You're fucking crazy!" Eirik shouted, as he pushed Crixus off of him.

"You watch your back," Crixus threatened, pointing towards Eirik. "Do you hear me? Because one day, I'm going to kill you. Yes, that's right. I'm going to kill you and see your plans foiled, Wulfharth! You won't be undying for long, not while I'm alive. I will be the one to kill Wulfharth the Undying, Ysmir of the North, the Grey Spirit!"

"I don't care what you think I am," Eirik replied. "I am Eirik, son of Bjorn, Firstborn of the Sons of Skyrim, Dragonborn, Harbinger of the Companions. And that is all I am." He pointed to Crixus. "I've given you your throne and fulfilled my oath. We are friends no more." He then took up the great-sword of the Skaal from where it lay beside Ondolemar's body and rested it upon his shoulders. He then turned to his companions: they had received many bruises and some had been bloodied from their wounds, but they were all of them alive.

"Sons of Skyrim," he said. "Let's go home." Without a word, they took their weapons in hand and headed towards the door out of which the Penitus Oculatus had departed.

"Coward!" Crixus shouted. "Traitor! Oath-breaker! I own you! You would never be where you are if it weren't for me! I'll never let you forget this, do you hear me? You, fucking Wulfharth, have aided me in coming to power! Try living with that!"

But Eirik did not reply. Galvanized by Crixus' angry words, he was determined not to stoop to Crixus' level anymore. With no more regard, he walked out of the Imperial Palace and rejoined the Sons of Skyrim as they made their long voyage back into the north. The Dragon and the Bear parted, but not on friendly terms.

* * *

That day was certainly a busy one in the Imperial Palace. With his mask still on, Crixus spoke through the Emperor's servants, sending messages to Delphine in Cloud Ruler Temple to assemble the Blades to come to the Imperial City at once. Another letter he sent to Elisif the Fair in Skyrim, calling for her to presently arrive at the Imperial City: his last letter he sent to Pelagius-Lucan, care of the Black-Briar manor in Cheydinhal. He then interviewed each of the members of the Elder Council, as well as the one Lexerus Buteo had in line to replace Motierre as the Councilor for High Rock: Marcus Curio. From the Elder Council he demanded that they remained in the Capital until the 31st of Evening Star, the day he designated to be publicly introduced as the Emperor.

But before he dismissed them, Crixus gathered what remained of the one hundred Oculati, the Elder Council and his companions. To them he gave the official story of what happened. According to Crixus, the Sons of Skyrim had slain Titus Mede II during his visit to Skyrim. Then they came to Cyrodiil to wipe out the Elder Council, and it was by the cunning of he and his companions that their full plan of slaughter and bloodshed had been foiled. As far as they were told, this hooded and masked man was an agent of the Emperor, acting on his orders to install in secret the one the Emperor had chosen specifically to be his heir.

After sending his letters, Crixus had the Emperor's servants brought forth and apartments arranged for his companions, including Drogon. They slept that night in the royal suites of the Emperor himself, in the very White-Gold Tower. Crixus remained awake for a long time, until sleep finally consumed him. He dreamed once again that he was on the boat, sailing towards the pillar of light. But now the pillar of light grew closer and closer, until at last it was clear to see that it was not a pillar but a gap in the sea of darkness. It was as if the world was shrouded in mist, and the pillar was in fact the parting of a great curtain, allowing him to see beyond the mists and into the light beyond. But the more he looked, the more it faded, until he saw nothing but a white and red chair looming at the center of the light.

As soon as Crixus awoke, he went at once to the outer court. This was the only dream that had not disturbed him, and, from its persistence, he believed that it held some great significance to him. Therefore he crept silently from his apartment down to the outer court, a torch in hand. Then went he to the door from whence Lexerus Buteo had come, which had been sealed after the bodies had been removed from the outer court. As the new master of the White-Gold Tower, he had the key with him, given to him by the chief of the servants; therefore he unlocked the door and walked into the dark room. It was domed like the other room, large but smaller than the previous room. In the walls around were niches with torches lying dead inside them: he used his torch to light the other torches until the entire room was illuminated.

It was the first time he had ever seen the fabled Imperial Throne Room, which no lowly man had ever passed into without direct invitation from the Emperor himself. On the floor he saw an interesting paved work that was after this design: it was fashioned like a great wheel made of marble and inlaid with gold. The wheel had eight spokes, each one made of marble, though that one which led to the throne was covered with a carpet of crimson velvet cloth. In between each spoke was an ornate paved work made of red marble and ruby. There were eight spokes that reached out from the center of the wheel to its edges, then there were also lines that reached from where the spokes touched the rim, touching another spoke at the same and opposite point: this all told laid sixteen spaces of crimson between the marble spokes. At the hub of the great wheel was a raised dais and a throne at the top of that dais that gave the distinct impression of a triangle: or was it a tower? It was made primarily of marble, but was damasked within and without with polished rubies. The arms had rubies, the seat had rubies and the back was of rubies. At the top of the back of the throne was the shape of a dragon with wings held upward, forming the back of the chair after the Red Diamond, the banner and emblem of the Empire.

Thus came Servius Crixus at last to that which few men had ever seen: nay, not since Jagar Tharn had overthrown Uriel Septim and taken his place had any 'lowly' outsider seen the Ruby Throne. Slowly Crixus walked the wheel, his mind going over the words he had read in the twenty-first lesson of St. Vivec from a book he found in Mournhold. It had made no sense to him, especially the talk of Towers and Vivec lying with Molag Bal. But now it seemed as though he saw the Sphere of Aurbis from the limited, imperfect sight of a mad Chimer doomed to two-dimensional understanding: he saw it as a wheel with the world at its hub, and the Emperor was the hub, being both world and god. Whether the Colovians had made this paved work in the Throne Room, or whether it had been made by the Ayleids in mockery and imitation of the Adamantine Tower, this tale does not tell. For a moment, he paused here, feeling as though he had conquered the world. If he were anyone else, he would have danced with joy. But for Crixus, whose needs fell to drink and women, longed for company and a good ale in his hand. As he walked about the throne, admiring what would soon be his, he suddenly came to a halt. The high dome and the marble floor caused every step to echo, and he heard steps that were not his own.

"Well well well," a familiar voice spoke deliberately. "It's certainly a surprise to see you here." Crixus turned around and saw Lady Arannelya striding confidently through the Ruby Throne, approaching Crixus.

"Why are you here?" Crixus asked.

"To congratulate you," she replied. "Quite an accomplishment you've achieved, Crixus. The Thief that took the Tower. Very much like your ancestors, if I'm not mistaken."

Crixus did not speak, though it was certainly disconcerting that this Thalmor had some idea of who his ancestors were.

"You've certainly done more than enough to uphold your end of the bargain," Lady Arannelya stated. "Burning down Sancre Tor, the Bruma Massacre, and now the removal of the High Chancellor, the most powerful _man_ in the Empire." She chuckled. "You know, Thelgil remarked on how your Eirik helped our cause more than Ulfric did: now you've done more for us than both of them combined."

"Liar," Crixus returned. "I never served the Dominion!"

"Can you _really_ be that naive?" she chuckled. "You, of all people, are perfect to serve our needs. Surely you, an intelligent Colovian gentleman such as yourself, can comprehend this."

"All that I've done," Crixus retorted. "I've done for the greater good of the Empire. For her honor, her glory...her memory." His words trailed off into a faint, dull echo. So similar were the words he spoke to those he had heard uttered by Chancellor Buteo before he killed him.

"Admirable goals, to be sure," Lady Arannelya replied. "The High Chancellor had such goals as well. His personal gain was always foremost, but he cared for the Empire in his own way. And we have seen to it that he is no more."

"We?" Crixus asked. "No, I killed him. I ran my sword through him. _I_ killed him, not you! There's no 'we' in the matter."

Lady Arannelya did not smile or laugh. Instead she shook her head slightly. "Still so naive. The truth lies before your very eyes, yet you would choose to believe the lies. Even your Titus Mede and General Tullius accepted the lies, though they guessed the truth."

"And what's the truth?" Crixus asked.

"The truth," she replied. "Is that we would like to continue our partnership. We realized that the High Chancellor was incompetent. And we both eliminated him in our own fashion. Did you really believe that the Penitus Oculatus would leave the Imperial Palace so lightly guarded?" She shook her head. "No, my dear warrior. It was I who insisted that he remain at the Palace instead of attending yesterday's triumph. I knew that you would prefer misdirection over a direct conflict: you would never dare to publicly assassinate the High Chancellor in view of so many people."

"You underestimate me," Crixus returned, recalling his very public assassination of Vittoria Vici.

"Oh, I don't think so," Lady Arannelya shook her head. "I think that you have a great love for the Empire. You certainly respect them in all things, or at least openly. But the true fear, Servius Crixus, does not come from the known: it comes from the unknown. You're afraid of what we'll do once we've returned to our full strength." She grinned. "You fear the Second War with the Empire will start in your lifetime."

Crixus said nothing, for such were his fears.

"But, in this respect," she returned. "There is no reason to fear me. I will make the unknown known to you and lay your fears to rest. The Empire need not fall as long as you maintain things as they have been. Uphold the White-Gold Concordant, promote the interests of the Dominion in all of your dealings and maintain the malleability which we have found so useful in our mutual efforts."

Crixus nodded. "Serve the Dominion to protect the Empire."

She nodded in reply. "It is, after all, as you yourself have said: sometimes great men must make great sacrifices for the greater good." With this, she turned and walked towards a rear door in the Throne Room so gracefully, it seemed to Crixus that she floated.

"I thought," Crixus spoke. "The last time we were together, you said that you wouldn't be so generous the next time we met."

"But I am not being generous at all," Lady Arannelya returned. "I cannot think of a greater burden to place upon the shoulders of the only human I ever considered worthy of being called my rival." She turned around to Crixus, a condescending smile on her face. "You will find, however, that I am not as crass as Thelgil or as mindbogglingly stupid as Ondolemar. I have only told you as much as you need to know, and I will not mock you for my own vain pleasure. I wish you all the best as you claim the Ruby Throne, Your Majesty..." She bowed before him: though anyone looking on might think it looked sincere enough, Crixus felt that it was mocking, a gesture of her gloating over her victory. When she rose, Crixus saw that she was smiling.

"After all," she added. "You will need all the help you can get. It would certainly be amiss if my chosen rival faced me in any condition less than his prime." With that, Lady Arannelya turned and left the Throne Room and Crixus to his thoughts. All alone, Crixus examined the throne yet again. Before he had been driven by a desire to sit there, for he had seen it in his dream. Now it seemed dishonest: he had not gotten there by his own power, but had been permitted to take the throne by the machinations of the Dominion. There could be no going back now. What he had tried to convince himself before was a lie was now proven beyond a shadow of a doubt: despite his mocking of Eirik in this matter, the Thalmor were indeed behind every bush from here to Skyrim.

Casting aside his hood and mask, Servius Crixus, garbed in the black leather gear of the Nightingales, sat upon the Ruby Throne at the very zenith of the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil. It had lost much of its power of old. When Martin returned the Amulet of Kings to Akatosh, the Heart of the White-Gold Tower was destroyed. Even by attempting to prevent the Deadlands from merging with Mundus, Martin Septim had broken the power of the White-Gold Tower, severing its link with its incorporeal form. Long ago, Eirik had heard the dragon Paarthurnax, right-hand to Alduin World-Eater, the firstborn of Akatosh, speak words that, if Crixus had known them, would have come to mind now: _Maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this world. Those who try to hasten the end, may delay it. Those who work to delay the end, may bring it closer._ Outwardly, Crixus would have dismissed the words and tried to kill the old dragon. But those words would have remained with him. And in his heart he would be pained to know that his ancestor, whom he revered as a god more than Tiber Septim, played a part in bringing about the end of the world.

Even now, as he sat in the hub of the wheel at the base of the White-Gold Tower, he could see farther than usual. Though the Tower had lost most of its ancient potency, there was still enough here for one of the Dragon-blood to sit here and gaze upon the world. Whether Divayth Fyr purged from Crixus the Dragon-blood or whether he merely removed from him the knowledge of the Voice, Crixus could not guess. But, for the moment, he was permitted to see his vision as clearly as if it were in the waking world. He saw the ship, the Red Dog, upon the Sea of Ghosts. Mists gathered about it on all sides. Then the pillar appeared, peeling back the mists and revealing the blinding light before him. Then it appeared before him, like a dazzling gem upon a shining glass mirror: an island, a wandering island. It was green and vibrant, like Cyrodiil in the time before Talos changed the land forever, and shrouded in mist. If there were cities upon that island, he could not guess, for they seemed to be no different than the land. Only the tall Tower in the midst thereof was any indication of something that was not part of the earth.

Then the vision faded, and he, Servius Crixus, knew the truth. He chuckled, for even that little boy growing up in the streets of Anvil would be surprised to see what had become of himself now. From the house of Valerius Crixus to the camps of the Imperial Red Legion, then to Bravil, the Great Forest and the Battle of the Red Ring, then onto Hammerfell and the Red Dog Pass, then to the capital city of Morrowind formerly known as Almalexia in the days of the Tribunal. From there to Cheydinhal, then to the frozen land of Skyrim: the crags and valleys of the west, towards High Rock and the Forgotten Valley, to the marshlands and the forests of the east. Then back home by the longest route and at last here, to the Ruby Throne. Whether at the center of the Sphere or as a piece moving among it, he now knew exactly what he was: Servius Crixus, Imperial Legionnaire, honorary Legate, veteran of the Great War, Hero of the Battle of the Red Dog Pass, Nightingale of Nocturnal's dark trinity, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, former bearer of the Gift of Akatosh, kin-slayer. Emperor. He knew the truth now, and in that moment, Emperor Servius Crixus I spoke the word that had been revealed in his moment of clarity here at the White-Gold Tower.

_Artaeum_

* * *

**(AN: I'M FINALLY DONE! I know i promised 52 chapters, but i think i can wrap this story up with just fifty. We do get the end foreseen a little in this chapter, what with Crixus having a vision of one possible future: it's the _C0da_ future, in which Sotha Sil somehow survives and completes his goal to restructure Nirn with clockworks, the Numidium is reactivated and the Dunmer and their Khajiit slaves escape to the moons to let the world burn below them. Of course since that means everyone who's not a Dunmer or Khajiit dies, that gives the Nords a kind of Ragnarok-inspired end of the world event, one in which Eirik, his ancestors and descendants, will take part. As well as Crixus, for reasons I will let you guess upon. I had initially wanted this to end as a kind of heist, but then that brought on the inevitable trouble that, since the Imperial City has grown since its 3E 433 boundaries, the caves and tunnels leading from the Imperial Bastion have likely been explored and sealed up. Therefore we could not use the tunnel that Valeria used to escape the prison, since those would likely have been sealed up. The other thing that would have likely bugged many of you is, of course, Eirik's great-sword smashing Ondolemar's katana. People really overestimate the katana until it's practically a lightsaber that can cut through and defend against anything: among those people was, of course, michael kirkbride. I've put those "katana cultists" in their place. Speaking of little story parts, this is the first time that the Imperial Throne Room and the Ruby Throne have ever appeared. This is, of course, my version of the Ruby Throne. Hope you enjoy it.)  
**

**(The end, also, is kind of open-ended. The end is very similar to _The Three Musketeers_ in that the bad guy pretty much gives the "protagonist" what he wants in exchange for his silence. As far as CS Lewis goes, my brother intended on making his own spin-off entitled _The Last Voyage of the Red Dog_, which was just a _Voyage of the Dawntreader_-style story of sailing on a ship, not connected to the overall Dragonborn stories. The real parallels to _Narnia_ arise with what will come after that, the inevitable _Children of the Dragon_ set seventeen years after this story's conclusion, like how _The Silver Chair_ takes place many years after _Prince Caspian/Dawntreader_. When _Children of the Dragon_ will be published, or if it will be published on this site at all, i cannot say. But what i can say is that i'll be taking a break from _Elder Scrolls_ stories for a while, to focus on my other stories on this site that need finishing/publishing. Do not expect _Children of the Dragon_ immediately after this story, but i will certainly try to publish it if time permits.)**


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